Five Minute Major
by Junichiblue
Summary: What happens when the most bitter rivals in hockey are on the same team? Grimmjow is a reckless, violent NHL enforcer trying to rise to the top of his game. Ichigo is a newcomer with a gift for scoring goals. Together, they should be unstoppable. Instead they turn the hockey world into a battle zone. Careers are on the line. Injuries are piling up. Something has to break. Grimmichi
1. Chapter 1

**So i'm watching the NHL playoffs here in Canada (around Jan 2012), and an idea hits me. Grimmjow and Ichigo as rough and tumble hockey players. And I thought, yes. Oh yes.**

**Thing I love about hockey (aside from the scoring) are the hits, the injuries, and the fights.  
Thing I love about Grimmjow and Ichigo... the hits, the injuries, and the fights.. and especially the scoring.**

**For those who need an "instant fix" of grimmichi cocaine, you won't find it in the first few chapters. My stories are a slower burn. I try to keep them IC, and I do my best to get the characters to hate each other, then slowly move towards a hot sweaty climax. If there are things you especially enjoy or hate, hearing about it makes my day.**  
**Junichiblue**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach or its characters. That honor goes to Tite Kubo.**

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**Five Minute Major**

Kurosaki Ichigo couldn't believe his eyes or his ears as he stepped off of the padded walkway and glided onto the ice at Seireitei's Sokyoku Hill Arena.

The huge arena was at capacity tonight. Over nineteen thousand horny, hungry fans had come out to see the home team kick some Hollow ass tonight. People from all walks of life lined the interior circumference of the building. The place was sold out.

The pure energy that seemed to fill the entire building was almost a physical thing, a creature alive with a will of its own. The crowd roared with delight as the team made its way onto the ice one by one, fully equipped players, ripe with testosterone and talent, forming an intimidating line along the blue line just off centre ice.

There was a constant sense of motion amongst the men as they shifted from skate to skate and toyed nervously with their sticks. Despite the fidgeting, every man was focused. They were oiled up and ready to go, every one of them hungry to win.

The music thundered out an excited beat and hammered its way into Kurosaki Ichigo's head, while bright lights and moving advertizements flickered and flashed and jogged their way around the screens that circled the stands.

It was almost too much for Ichigo, a near visceral overload.

Everywhere he looked, Ichigo saw black, blue and gold, Soul Reaper colors. In the crowd, on the banners, and on the ridiculously large screens that loomed above the ice. The people and the team colors seem to blanket the entire arena, filling it with an almost overpowering feeling of raw energy and highly charged emotions.

Ichigo had never felt so proud. Or so small.

He'd played _almost_ every game of the regular season, many of them in this, his home town's arena, but he couldn't remember ever feeling quite this nervous. Even his first NHL game as a Soul Reaper hadn't left him this high strung.

Christ. His fucking knees were shaking.

He just hoped to God that the cameras that lined almost every available space in the arena didn't zoom in on him while he waited in line along with his teammates for the anthem to begin.

He was stupid to think they wouldn't, though. He was as an up-and-comer, one of the team's top scorers and in his first season at that. The cameras would be trained on him, and his every move would be scrutinized during this entire series. Normally Ichigo liked the attention, but the pressure was on now and he couldn't afford to make any mistakes. His team needed him to be at his best.

Oh, God. He was going to throw up.

He felt something nudge his arm and he turned his head, only to find himself caught like a fish in a net, unable to escape a penetrating blue gaze.

"Hey. Don't let it get to ya. It's just another game." Electric blue eyes crinkled slightly at the corners as the larger player's mouth flared out into a broad, cocky, lopsided grin.

"...'Sides," he shrugged, indicating towards the fans that surrounded them with a sideways nod of his head. "They love us."

A fanged smile and the tip of a pink tongue was suddenly all Ichigo could see for a moment, and he felt himself blush slightly. But he grinned back regardless, the mere sight of the man beside him somehow managing to settle his stomach like nothing else could have. Even if they didn't win the series, he had everything else he ever wanted. The taller, broad shouldered player raised his glove and Ichigo reached up with his own to bump their fists together.

"Thanks," he mouthed.

The larger man grinned down at Ichigo and graced him with a wicked smile that he knew was reserved for him alone. The taller man finally straightened and faced forward as the music began to play, the crowd quieting down just enough to hear a man proudly belt out the words to their country's anthem.

In just a few minutes Ichigo would be playing in his first NHL playoff hockey game.

He couldn't be happier, or more surprised. They were squaring off against their bitter rivals, the Hueco Mundo Hollows. It was going to be a battle royal, and only one team was going to come out on top.

It had been a long, hard, rocky road for the Seireitei Soul Reapers, but for the first time in five years, they'd made it to the playoffs.

The real surprise though, was in the contrasting duo that played such a pivotal role in getting them there.

To say there had been friction between them would have been a world class understatement of epic proportions.

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**X**

**If you got this far, thanks for reading! And I hope you don't bail. It does get better. ;)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Forgive me if my hockey facts aren't one hundred per cent accurate. I watch it, but I don't know everything about it.**

**This story was supposed to be about five or six pages long. Weeks later, it sits in the mid twenties somewhere. *bangs head on arena floor*. It wasn't supposed to be this way. *stares with fear at stringy mess of upcoming chapters*  
*rolls up sleeves*... Don't hold your breath.**

**junichiblue**

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**CHAPTER TWO**

Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez stalked his way down the long corridor alone with heavy, choppy strides, the sharp blades of his skates cleaving deep, clean cuts into the padded rubber matting that lined the hallway floor.

The few people he had passed moments ago had all scampered towards the wall in an effort to give the seriously agitated man room to get by without him accidentally knocking them into the concrete wall or spearing them with his stick. The man's cobalt eyes were on fire, blue hair damp and matted to his head, his shoulders heaving beneath the protective pads. The player's need to break things was palpable, and no one wanted to be the one to accidentally set him off.

He was a large enough man to begin with, standing at six foot three, entire body riddled with muscles. Add several pounds of hockey equipment, shoulder pads, thick gloves, and skates, and he seemed to fill the hallway, his very presence a force in itself.

Somewhere behind the outraged player, one of the team's young assistants picked up the bluenet's forgotten gloves and discarded helmet, the one that had bounced off of a wall before rolling like a warped bowling ball down the hallway. But the young man who now clutched the gear hung back. The cheques he brought home didn't have nearly enough zeros on them to make him feel brave enough to enter that locker room right now. So instead, he stood there, watching in awe as the back of the infamously temperamental player disappeared around the corner toward the dressing rooms.

The tired and sweating bluenet had already peeled off his jersey and started to work on his safety gear before he even reached the open doorway that lead into the Soul Reaper's empty locker room, clawing at the padding with angry, shaking fingers.

He wanted it off. All of it. Everything was sticking and bunching and touching and sticking and just so fucking pointless. The need to get out of that fucking restrictive gear was nearly overloading his already frayed senses. He was hauling in breaths like he was trapped beneath a heavy blanket.

But each layer that was stripped away only seemed to release more suffocating anger into the air until the bluenet was finally whipping his elbow pads like an out of control pitcher, and launching his stick into the corner in a blind fury as he stomped across the room and made his way bitterly towards the corner locker which was reserved for him. The one with the large number six. It was painted in black and positioned with pride high up on the wooden frame. He glanced up at the symbol and snorted.

He was supposed to be the Soul Reaper's infamous number six. But he was beginning to feel like a big fat zero.

A low growl built up in the back of his throat and he turned abruptly away from his locker.

He just wanted to get the fuck out of here. Cool off.

Right now it seemed nearly impossible, but calming down was paramount. He wasn't going to risk putting himself behind the wheel of his newly repaired sports car until the urge to kill every living thing that got in his way had passed. If he could just get out of this place, and away from the noise and the bullshit and the one thing in particular that was pissing him off, he might feel less inclined to commit homicide.

Then maybe later he'd find a hot piece of ass to take care of the ache in his groin.

Grimmjow sat down hard on the wooden bench and tugged angrily at his skates, each one eventually popping off and releasing an invisible cloud of warm, humid foot odour into his face as leaned forward. He wrinkled his nose and tried not to gag before he tossed the offending footwear without care behind him, the skates clattering heavily inside the base of his wooden locker.

Freed from his skates, Grimmjow stood up, and grimaced. He lifted his right leg and rotated his ankle a few times before putting his full weight on it again. It ached still, especially after a game. Didn't matter though. It wasn't holding him back, much. His hands began to move without thought as he systematically began removing the rest of his gear. One by one, he stuffed the pieces of his sweat soaked uniform into his large blue and black hockey bag.

Jersey already off, he began the ordeal of removing each piece of safety gear, socks, shin guards, pants, and finally his protective athletic cup. He thumbed the straps of the cup and slipped them down over his strong, muscled thighs, grunting when the cup pulled away, the action releasing the boner that had been trapped inside the hard, plastic prison.

Fucking Kurosaki.

Bickering with that argumentative little shit always gave him wood.

Of course it did. It always did. The adrenaline rush he got during any fight always went straight to his dick.

It was one of God's little jokes on hot headed guys like Grimmjow.

Get excited. Get hard.

So what, if he was more animal than man? So fucking what? He didn't need some ignorant little bitch of a newb mouthing off to him about his playing style.

The third period was almost over and Grimmjow had been ejected from the game for fighting.

It was all that orange-haired prick's fault. Grimmjow always got into fights. It was part of his job as an enforcer. And he fucking loved it. He was as aggressive as they came, a true alpha male. But this time, he'd taken it a bit too far. He had the guy, his old team mate, Ulquiorra Schiffer, down on the ice, but he couldn't resist getting in a few extra punches before the refs finally stepped in.

Unfortunately, one of those punches had landed true and had caused the pale bastard's head to bounce off the ice, sans helmet. It was instant lights out for old Ulqui. Ah, but Grimmjow didn't feel bad about that. The little fucker deserved it. He'd always been an emotionless, condescending prick when Grimmjow had played for the Hollows.

And tonight, Ulquiorra had been an irritating little fuck as usual, until he finally pushed Grimmjow as far as the sexta would allow. It was late in the third, and number four had twice high sticked and slashed Grimmjow behind the play, and when Grimmjow had complained loudly (and with many bad words) to the ref about it, trying to draw a penalty, they had claimed they hadn't seen it, and effectively ignored him.

So, he'd settled the problem himself. With a smile.

The last he'd seen, as the official's waved their arms frantically and handed him a five minute major for fighting, as well as a fucking game misconduct, the Hollow's team doctor and his crew were hauling out the stretcher for the unconscious player.

Grimmjow had expected the fighting penalty, but he was shitting mad about the game misconduct. The point of the ten minute penalty was to give offending players the opportunity to cool down. It was, in Grimmjow's professional opinion, a very stupid fucking rule. 'Cause let's face it. It just pissed him off even more.

The thing that really burned his ass, though...

The thing that really set his blood on fire...

He wouldn't have lost it so perfectly if that smarmy little cheese head, carrot top, prick hadn't kept egging him on for their entire game. Grimmjow wouldn't have thought it possible, but he was even worse than Ulquiorra. There was some indefinable thing about the way Kurosaki looked at him, something that said, you're not good enough. I don't respect you. I'm better than you.

And then there were the things the turd actually said out loud, right to Grimmjow's fucking face. And it went something like, I don't respect you, and I'm better than you. Fucking unbelievable. The kid had a nine week head start on him with the team and he thought he owned the fucking franchise.

Grimmjow had been a late start to the season. He'd gotten injured just before the start of the hockey pre-season in September. Car accident. It was just a fender bender. Some idiot hadn't been paying attention and had hit him from behind at a red light. But he'd managed to jack up his ankle pretty good. In fact, the injury had been bad enough that the coaching staff had decided to write Grimmjow off for the season, much to the bluenet's outrage.

Written off. Grimmjow.

Unacceptable.

Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez was officially off the roster. He'd spent the first two weeks brooding in his apartment, effectively laid up, living without purpose, watching the world march on without him, feeling like a ghost.

But miracles do happen. And although it meant that misfortune had to fall on others, it worked in Grimmjow's favour. And he couldn't have been happier. Only a few short weeks into pre-season training, the team had been plagued with serious injuries, and as a result had lost several of its forwards. That left a huge space that desperately needed to be filled. And to Grimmjow's delight, the team's coach had come "crawling" back to the bluenet.

Well, not really.

Grimmjow called _them_ when he heard the news. He'd been watching the 'body count' pile up from the very first injury and as soon as he'd realized how desperate his team was becoming, he'd told his physiotherapist to push him to his limits, and had spent every waking minute training as best he could with personal trainers. Given the doctors' original prognosis, Grimmjow's recovery had been quite remarkable.

But not to him. He was the freaking sexta for crying out loud. To think a little thing like an ankle injury could keep him down was bullshit.

He worked like a man possessed, but still, the bluenet had missed training camp, which meant no practices and no pre-season games. He'd even missed their first nine regular season games before their good doctor finally cleared him. Despite that, Grimmjow was grateful to whatever hockey gods existed, but he knew he still had some serious catching up to do if he wanted his comback to mean anything.

Grimmjow had been damn near thrilled to bits to be able skate again. He lived for hockey. Like most dedicated hockey players, he'd practically learned to skate before he'd figured out how to walk. But it wasn't just the game that he loved. It was everything _about_ the game. The feel of his blades sliding against the ice, the power he called up as he raced at the speed of stupid into the opposing team's zone with the puck, and the physical pain as he crushed other players with his body into the boards or smashed his fist into their faces.

Oh, and the scoring. He was working on his accuracy, lining up his shots better, focusing. There were rewards there too. The adoration of the fans. The respect of his teammates. There was nothing wrong with that.

Grimmjow was a forward, and by his very violent nature, a natural enforcer for his team. The bluenet wasn't the best player, though he'd improved dramatically in the past year with the Reapers. But he was certainly a presence on the ice, a bringer of pain, a harbinger of doom, a player who sent other players scrambling for their mothers when they realized he was lining them up.

At twenty five, he was just starting his fourth year in the NHL and his second season with the Soul Reapers. He'd started his career with the Hueco Mundo Hollows, gotten called up from their farm team. But after two seasons they'd mutually decided that he wasn't a good fit. So, he'd been put up for trading.

It hadn't worked out so bad in the end. Grimmjow didn't even have to move. He'd lived in Seireitei for almost ten years and hoped to stay there. The hour long commute to Hueco Mundo had always been a pain anyway. And most of the guys on the team had an even worse attitude that he did. That was hard to believe. Even he'd admit it.

The majority of the Reapers, though, were pretty cool most of the time. So, when he looked at it, over all the trade had been a blessing. Everything had turned around.

He liked playing for the Soul Reapers. They were his team.

His.

And then Kurosaki Ichigo showed up and started rocking the boat, upsetting the natural order of things. Everybody but Grimmjow seemed de-fucking-lighted to have the guy aboard. They had high hopes for the kid, like he was some kind of prodigy or something. They had it in their heads that he was going to take the Soul Reapers to greater places.

Sure, Kurosaki could shoot. But he was a fucking glory hog. Okay, so Grimmjow generally wasn't much better. If he saw a shot, he took it, regardless of who was yelling at him that they were open. But more and more Grimmjow found himself wishing he was back with the Hollows, just so he could be on the other side and legitimately take the little shit out, grind him into nothing but a wet, bloody smear across the boards. But no. They had to be on the same fucking team didn't they? That was the only reason their arguments had never progressed beyond cursing, shouting matches, and practice hits with more love in them than necessary. Well, Grimmjow's fuse was lit but good now. And one of these days, Grimmjow was going to show that little fuck where tears come from.

At first Grimmjow just thought the kid didn't like passing off the puck, but it didn't take a genius to realize that Ichigo very specifically didn't like passing the puck to _him_. And so, whenever they were in the same lineup and Ichigo scored, which was pretty fucking often, Grimmjow didn't even get a lousy assist.

As a result, his stats were falling. Kurosaki was making him look like a chump.

He was stealing Grimmjow's thunder.

And that wasn't right. And it wasn't fair. He was the king. Not Ichigo.

Grimmjow hadn't worked as hard as he had to improve his skills and his scoring just to have some post pubescent (Okay, so the guy was like 21. Fuck off.) fresh from the farm, Gretzky wannabe show up and start muscling in on Grimmjow's hard fought status. Grimmjow was on his way to becoming a power forward, a player who was equally capable of playing physically or scoring goals. He was large. He was tough. And he had the offensive instincts, mobility, and puck-handling skills that he needed to make him a valued member of his team. He'd blossomed with the Soul Reapers and was slowly grooming himself into the complete package. He would never deny his love of a good fight, but he wasn't going to be just a mindless bruiser who's soul purpose was to seek and destroy. A little more time, and the right conditions, and everyone would see. Grimmjow could do it all.

The sound of a buzzer and raucous cheers echoed down the corridor into the quiet dressing room where the bluenet was just finishing pulling on a loose fitting, navy blue, crew neck tee and tucking the edges into the rim of his black, stone washed jeans. He raked limp, blue hair back and away from his forehead in one smooth motion with long fingers. He was still caked in sweat and grease, and probably stunk to high heaven but he'd shower when he got...

"_Number 15, Kurosaki Ichigoooo..."_

A hard, guttural noise shattered the relative peace of the locker room, followed by the loud snap of wood splintering apart, and a slew of curses that would have made Satan himself blush.

The obnoxious arena music that had been but a distant annoyance for the past five minutes suddenly seemed to pour down the long hallway like a constricted tidal wave and crash into the room, flooding it and drowning him in the sickening sound of his arch nemesis's victory.

Grimmjow felt his blood pressure rise, and he stood there for a moment, trying to remember _how_ to take deep slow breaths before he blew out an artery.

It helped. Some. The urge to destroy anything with orange on it wasn't quite so strong now. He took another "calming" breath, then snatched up his hockey bag and threw the broad strap over his shoulder before storming out of the locker room and heading towards the exit. He'd be hearing all about the game and his ejection from it tomorrow, but for now he just wanted to put this night behind him.

He adjusted the heavy bag of hockey gear so it didn't press so hard into a tender bruise on his shoulder as he lumbered out of the room. Normally, the guys left their dirty gear behind to be cleaned by the staff, but Grimmjow had a thing about other people touching his stuff. So, he'd always done his own goddamn laundry. He'd have to do it as soon as he got home or else he'd soon be calling the centre for disease control and prevention.

Fuck. That lay was looking farther and farther away. He could throw his shit in the laundry and call some chick over but he knew he wouldn't be in the mood to share his very private space with anyone tonight.

As he moved swiftly towards the exit, Grimmjow tried not to look up at the flat screen TV's that seemed to be suddenly everywhere, but he couldn't keep his eyes away from the image that was being replayed repeatedly on on the bright LCD displays.

Number fifteen taking a long pass. Number fifteen breaking away. Number fifteen lining up the shot, shooting... no... faking the shot. The goaltender going down. Number fifteen tucking the puck neatly upstairs. Number fifteen raising his hands and milking the moment for all it was worth.

Grimmjow scowled darkly at the bright display which was currently filled with cheering fans and celebrating Soul Reapers.

Several arena staff scuttled by the ejected player as quickly as they could when they caught sight of the man's murderous expression. A deep, hate filled growl echoed through the hall, turning to a disgusted snarl as the bluenet spun on his heel and stormed towards the exit, an almost visible black cloud churning above him, lightening and all.

They could all suck it.

He was so fucking out of here.


	3. Chapter 3

**So, i'm typing away, and it hits me. This story is following nearly the exact same plot as my next fic, the one that's actually supposed to be my 'good' one. *face palms*  
It seems I have a rather one track mind. But, face palms aside, I can live with it. So-long as people enjoy the same shmuck a few times over, at least till i get it outta my system, it's all good. *derp***

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**Chapter Three**

As first meetings went, Ichigo didn't consider theirs anything extraordinary.

A bit awkward, perhaps, the peeled open feeling of being assessed bye sapphire cubes of ice bringing about a mild sense of unease, but nothing too disturbing. Nothing truly foreboding.

Ichigo had already gained miles of confidence since his first shaky days during practice. It was thanks in large to the excellent coaching staff and the support he'd had from some of the more seasoned veterans. Despite the near constant childish antiques of allegedly grown men, most of the Reapers were pretty good guys. For guys who worked and played as hard as they did, they all seemed to carry themselves with a relaxed and easy air.

The orange haired forward had nine preseason games under his belt now, but for the next few days the Soul Reaper's schedule was clear. That didn't mean they took a break, though. Instead, their coach worked them for five hours a day during practise sessions that occasionally left Ichigo nearly exhausted. Their time was split between running through endless drills and going over plays, to picking through footage from previous games and analyzing mistakes. It made for an exceptional workout and kept them in top physical and mental form. Such was the working life of a pro-athlete.

A few of the guys were so hard core, they even worked out _before_ practice.

Outside, the wind was picking up to blustery levels, the colourful leaves hanging onto their branches by their skins on the sunny fall day. Inside the Sokyoku Hill Arena, there was blustering of a different kind going on, a coltish battle of wits and witless remarks.

It was going on ten a.m. inside the Soul Reaper's locker room, and the space was already bustling with half naked players.

It took Ichigo a moment to get through the good-natured ribbing and obscene gestures that were aimed his way, the provocative teasing which had become part of his daily routine as new man on the totem pole.

Their goaltender, Renji, was the worst, going so far as to toss the damp towel from around his waste at Ichigo's face and call Ichigo a carpet muncher. Ichigo quickly flicked the offending linen off of his shoulder with a disgusted grimace. He didn't even want to know what Renji had meant by that. But regrettably, he did... even before he glanced down at the naked Soul Reaper's exposed junk and got an impromptu eyeful of thick red hair. Double yuck.

The orangette turned away and dumped his open hockey bag on the floor in front of his locker before peeling off his white, long sleeved shirt, and loosening the drawstring of his favourite grey sweatpants, the ones with the blue arrows running up the sides of the legs. Ichigo didn't feel any particular aversion to being in a locker room with guys in various states of dress. He was quite used to it. And he wasn't usually shy with his own body. Hell, he worked hard to keep himself in shape and he knew that most people would love to have a body like his.

What? He wasn't conceited or anything. It was just a fact. He was an athlete. And he had the body to prove it.

Ichigo stepped out of his jogging pants and began rifling through his hockey bag as he tried to focus on the friendly banter that filled the locker room. He caught snippets of different conversations from his team mates, voices chiming in from every direction. It was a mixture of the latest news and personal insults as the players gleefully took the piss out of each other.

Outdated dirty jokes and cheesy put downs were flung across the room, followed by jeers and raucous laughter, Renji's voice coming out loud and clear at one point. Ichigo shuddered as he kicked off his dark blue jogging pants. He was still trying to get the disturbing image out of his head when another voice caught his attention.

It was one he hadn't heard before. Not in person. And the gravelly tenor rushed down his spine in a dangerously delicious way.

A chorus of greetings rang out as a large blue haired man swaggered through the room and slipped through the gaggle of jostling players with a fluid ease that made Ichigo feel a pang of envy.

"Yo. Sexta!" That was Renji.

"Grim baby! How the fuck are ya?" Shinji.

"Nice a ya ta grace us with your presence, yer highness." Shiro.

"Yeah, man. We won three straight games. Glad yer back before we got too used to it." Renji again.

The man with sky blue hair graced his teammates with a tolerant grin as he sauntered by and flipped them all the bird.

They called him the Sexta.

He was the Soul Reapers' top enforcer.

Number six. Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez.

The name itself had dangerous intonations. It made one conjure up images of the grim reaper and brought to mind rows of sharp, jagged teeth that snapped at your heels as you were hunted down without mercy.

You almost couldn't even say it without a snarl forming on your lips.

Try it. Say it.

Jaegerjaquez.

See?

Within seconds of laying eyes on the blue-haired enforcer, Ichigo was mesmerized. There was something primordial and feral about the man. He was clearly a guy who would never be content to live life outside of a sport like hockey, or boxing, or even UFC, anything that came with the promise of pain and blood.

He was an animal.

And hells bells if he wasn't the most brilliant piece of art Ichigo had ever seen. He had to admit, he was envious. He wanted that body.

Excuse him. He meant, he wanted it for himself.

Nope, missed again. He meant he wanted to have that... have a body like that.

While Ichigo groused to himself over his alarming display of poorly executed mental acrobatics, the newest addition to the locker room was pulling up next to one of the teams' more seasoned veterans, Kensei Muguruma. He stood nearly head to head with Grimmjow, his white hair cropped neat and short. He was slightly broader at the shoulders than the blue-haired man, but despite his intimidating stature, he was one of the friendliest players on the team.

Ichigo had realized quickly that Kensei tended to act as something of a peacemaker between the players on the rare occasion when they butted heads. Kensei had done his share of enforcing in his early years but he was inherently a gentle man, and a family man now too. So, he was content to leave the more brutal side of the game to the younger players.

As Ichigo looked down the long line of players, and stole a glance in their direction, the two men exchanged a few quiet words. They seemed friendly, comfortable. The new guy, Jaegerjaquez, was even smiling as Kensei knuckled him playfully in the shoulder. Ichigo knew who this blue-haired man was, of course. He had followed all of the players' careers before he'd been drafted. This guy was one of the newer additions to the team. He was a rough player, dirty sometimes, but he was effective. It wasn't Ichigo's style, but who was he to argue with results? The Reapers had done better in the last year than they had four years running, and at least some tiny part of that may have had to do with the blue-haired enforcer.

"Yo, Ichi. You haven't met our star bully yet." Ichigo jerked when Kensei bellowed at him from the other end of the locker room where Grimmjow had already finished removing most of his street wear, nothing but a dark pair of boxer briefs clinging to his hips.

Kensei introduced them with a slight bow and a roll of his arm.

"Ichigo. Grimmjow. - Grimmjow. Ichigo."

Ichigo ghosted a smile and raised two fingers in a motionless wave before quickly dropping his hand and letting the corners of his mouth pull back, as eyes as cold as the antarctic settled on him, looking him up and down, searching for a redeeming feature and apparently coming up short.

"Hn," the bluenet snorted. "I know who you are," he said slowly, nothing short of pure contempt dripping from his words.

Ichigo frowned back at the bluenet, confused. What had he done to deserve that kind of response? The man couldn't possibly have a grudge against someone he'd only just met. Could he?

He was about to take exception to the man's prejudiced tone when it dawned on Ichigo, suddenly beginning to sweat under that burning polar gaze, that he was quite naked at the moment, and Grimmjow was still staring at him. The orangette snatched up his t-shirt from where it lay on the bench and opened it out in front of himself as if to fold it as he was hit with the sudden urge to cover his exposed skin.

Grimmjow grinned, but anything that could have appeared friendly about it had been expertly held back. Ichigo felt his brow crease and held the other man's gaze. It was disturbing. Looking into those eyes was like entering the man's dominion. Ichigo was obliged by now to rise up to the challenge that was so obviously being aimed at him. It was some sort of intimidation tactic to be sure. But this guy didn't know yet that Kurosaki Ichigo was not one to back down when the heat was on. It was only for a moment, the locking of invisible horns, but it felt like anything but to the orange-haired man.

The bluenet finally turned away, apparently pleased that he had made the new guy so obviously uncomfortable.

Ichigo took a deep breath, only realizing now that he hadn't taken one since Grimmjow had looked in his direction.

Okay, so maybe that was just Grimmjow's way of ribbing Ichigo, the same as all the other guys had done. Ichigo could handle anything they threw at him, and by all rights, Grimmjow's little test wasn't that bad. Everything that had seemed to still in the room suddenly came rushing back to life in a noisy lurch. Or maybe Ichigo had slipped back into it. It was hard to tell.

Ichigo twitched at the shiver that rattled down his spine. For a moment, the encounter had left him with the strangest sensation, like he and the bluenet had slipped out of space and time and ended up in a barren world where only the two of them existed, locked in a dangerous battle of domination and supremacy. Ichigo snorted as he turned back to his locker and rifled through his sports equipment, picking out the bits and pieces that needed to be put on first. He didn't have time for fanciful thinking. And almost as soon as the feeling hit, it seemed to fade away.

It was just a test. He was still the new guy here. This man didn't know him from shit.

He slipped into his gear quickly and readied himself for practice. He was sure that once they hit the ice and Ichigo had shown the bluenet that he'd earned the right to be there, he and Grimmjow would get along just fine.


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm balls deep happy that this chapter is done. It was such a mess. It's still a mess but it works. I am sorry it took so long, but aside from my writer's scrambled eggs approach, I hurt my neck/shoulder. Darn shoulder muscles went into spasm a few days ago, and it's still aching right now. (try having a leg cramp in your shoulder - she hurts so good!) :D**

**Tried relaxicette, and am now onto Rev instead. It's no better but at least it comes with a fun buzz. At any rate, the ache makes it hard to sit for any length of time. But, rest assured I will be sorting out the next chapter as soon as I can.**

**JB**

* * *

**CHAPTER 4**

Two practice sessions and three games later, and Ichigo couldn't frigging stand him.

He was the most volatile player on the team, hands down.

The guy was barbaric. He seemed to live for destruction, knocking down players like dominoes on the ice, whether they were deserving of his wrath, in Ichigo's opinion, or not.

Ichigo was well aware of Grimmjow's general playing style. He'd seen it in games on T.V., and he'd seen in the live games he'd attended just the year before, but he'd never actually had to experience it at ice level, work with the guy, watch him headhunt other players over and over again with the coldness of a serial killer.

He didn't have to hear the crunch of bones being broken, or listen to the pained moans as muscles were bruised, and wheezing breaths as lungs were crushed by the terrifyingly hard, full body hits that Grimmjow dished out during every game.

Ichigo leaned forward and glanced to his right, past the players that separated him from the bluenet on the bench, as the game played out in front of them.

Number six was watching the play like a cat fixated on a the red dot from a laser beam.

Grimmjow wasn't like the others. His eyes were more focused, like he was hunting the game, watching for infractions against his teammates so he could nudge the right people when he was let out of his cage and onto the ice, let them know that he was going to come back for them. He just wouldn't tell them when.

In moments like this, the Sexta reminded Ichigo of something that stalked the deepest depths of the darkest jungle, a creature that crawled amongst the vines, slithered in caged silence through tangled underbrush, a predator that _haunted_ its prey before devouring it.

Ichigo had learned that mental torture was generally Grimmjow's modus operandi for smaller infractions. The bigger violations, though, he took care of immediately and thoroughly. Instant retaliation. And eye for an eye. Ichigo usually didn't subscribe to that kind of mentality. Don't get him wrong. He didn't pull his punches. He was known for getting into fights on the ice if he was pushed. Sometimes even just a nudge would do it.

Regardless, Ichigo could hold his own like a champ when he needed to. But he didn't need to curb stomp a man to make his point.

Nobody on Ichigo's old team played like that. Urahara Kisuke had never allowed it. That wasn't to say it never happened. Such was the game of hockey. And guys were guys. They had tempers. They were human, and sometimes they lost it completely and pulled stupid moves. But Urahara always taught them to play clean and fair, to stick to the rules and avoid drawing penalties.

Ichigo knew he wasn't in the minors anymore. He wasn't adverse to change, and he accepted that things here would be different.

He was in the big leagues now. He was playing with the big boys.

And he was in the ring with a lunatic.

Despite all of the focus on Grimmjow's - _I'__m the darkest thing this world has ever seen on ice_ – image, Ichigo couldn't shake the sensation, the whisper of concern, that had snuck up out of nowhere and now seemed stuck inside him. Like a chalky pill that hadn't quite gone down, it caught and annoyed, and left a bad hurl-worthy taste behind.

There was another side to all the violence that baffled Ichigo.

Grimmjow never came away completely unscathed.

It wasn't the hardest part to watch, but still, it kind of bothered the young forward. The Sexta used his body like a battering ram. There was no way, even with proper techniques, that a player could repeatedly hit as hard as he did and not come away in pain as well.

But you didn't see it on the ice. Grimmjow never let it show. And the fans always cheered him on.

The crowds couldn't _see_ the damage he inflicted on himself. They didn't _see_ the deep bruises that often littered his arms and shoulders from where he threw himself into other players, or the purple, swollen skin that darkened into ugly crescents beneath his opalescent eyes whenever a punch made it through during a fight.

The badges he wore were the ugly aftermath of the game, Grimmjow's game anyway, sickening shades of black and blue and unhealthy yellow.

Not Soul Reaper colours. But the colours of a man who let his rage consume him in the heat of battle, who cared nothing for himself, who lost sight of consequences. The bluenet was there for all the wrong reasons. He wasn't playing for the love of the game, just the hurt of it.

And that was just the tip of Ichigo's frustration. The bluenet was a diamond in the rough, really rough. To see all that potential thrown away night after night, to watch the coach pat him on the back and tell him what a _fine_ job he'd done... it set Ichigo's teeth on edge.

Ichigo was sure he could see more than empty rage behind that mask. Grimmjow could be more than just an animal if he could just harness that energy and pour it into the game that _Ichigo_ knew. That's what Urahara would say.

And that's what Ichigo thought, until just two weeks later, when he was forced to pair up with the Sexta.

It was almost December, and they hadn't played on the same line together for more than a few minutes here and there. The coach was always switching things up, trying to find the perfect balance of players to increase their offensive chances and improve their defensive strength. He hadn't seen anything noteworthy happen when he'd paired the two forwards together, so their on-ice time was limited to mainly practice sessions.

The problems had started when the coach noticed that Ichigo was getting taken down a lot more often along the boards, and being high sticked, boarded, cross-checked, elbowed, speared, and goaded into fight after fight. Anything to destroy his focus. Kurosaki had quite a temper when he was provoked, and it often didn't take a lot to get him there.

Up until then, he had been on a hot streak, sometimes nearly single handedly winning games for the Reapers. A few goals here, a few goals there, a hat trick or two, and the team's prospects were looking good for the season. Ichigo was living up to every expectation and more.

But with the glory came the pitfalls. Number fifteen, Kurosaki, had a price tag on his head. After just two and a half months of Ichigo showing the NHL just what he could do, the cards were on the table, and other teams' hard hitting players were gunning for him with a passion. They couldn't seem to block his shots so their tactics were changing, and now they wanted to take out the Reaper's high scoring offence-man in any way possible.

And that's when Ichigo's winning streak came to an end. He could barely move around the ice without being targeted and taken out. The playing field had changed. Until recently, Ichigo hadn't needed much in the way of help to do his job, and suddenly he had a body guard he didn't want.

Never mind that Ichigo now spent more time dodging oncoming players and watching his back than shooting the puck, the blue-haired asshole's presence was beginning to affect his game.

Just two weeks of working with the bluenet, and Ichigo was actually missing the days of silence between them. They almost never spoke in the locker room, and it seemed to suit Grimmjow just fine. Their lockers were at opposite ends, Grimmjow in his corner, Ichigo in the other, and the blue-haired man seemed content to ignore him, aside from the occasional side jab that was flung in his direction whenever the bluenet was handing out a round of abuse. Most of the time Ichigo did his thing, talked to the other team members, but it was impossible to ignore the man completely. Between that jet blue hair and those soul swallowing eyes, he was fucking magnificent. But somewhere in his young life the bluenet's personality had gone for a serious shit.

Their first game working together on the same line had sparked almost immediate frustration in Ichigo, and if their post game argument was any indication, it had pissed off the bluenet as well.

The bulk of the team had already made their way out of the building, running home to their wives or hot dates, by the time Ichigo was showered and changed back into his street clothes. They'd won the game, thanks to a lone goal by Ichigo late in the third period. No thanks to the Sexta though. He was infuriating to play with. Ichigo had yelled at him to pass off the puck several times and he hadn't. Instead, Grimmjow had taken the shots and they had been blocked. He'd wasted several of Ichigo's good scoring chances, and Ichigo had let him know it out on the ice. Grimmjow had merely barked back something obnoxious that Ichigo was certain was a physical impossibility.

Barely a glance had been exchanged between the two men after the game and now all Ichigo wanted to do was go home, put his feet up, and relax. He had two days off before he'd have to deal with the bluenet's attitude problem again.

Or so he thought. Ichigo turned the corner and his heart nearly clamoured out of his throat at the sight of the man leaning heavily against the wall of the corridor just outside the dressing room door. Grimmjow's head came up he fixed on Ichigo like he was an injured bird.

His eyes were ice cold, expression hard and serious. Even though he was showered, styled and changed into casual clothes, he looked angry and intimidating. His arms were folded across his chest. His stance, and the wrinkled black leather of his thick, hooded, winter jacket which hung open over an equally dark shirt, gave him a look that meant all business.

Even his hair screamed aggressive, clawed bangs reaching out to grab at him.

Grimmjow sneered inwardly as he observed the shorter man's posture change from nonchalant to alert. He had the fucking kid alone. And he seemed to have his attention.

Ichigo was watching him with a wary eye as he made to skirt past the bluenet who had strategically placed himself so that the orangette had to either pass him by or take the long way around to the parking lot. Grimmjow stepped away from the wall.

"You're something else you know that?" he said lowly.

Ichigo stopped and turned, brows furrowing and one eye narrowing into an offended glare.

"Excuse me? _I'm_ something else?"

Another step forward by the larger man and Ichigo was suddenly stuck, back against the opposite wall, how he'd gotten there a complete mystery to him.

"Let me fucking 'splain a little something to you, Kurosaki." Grimmjow jabbed a stiff finger into Ichigo's chest, half hoping the kid would explode and take a swing. Then it would be a fucking free for all. And that was just how Grimmjow wanted it.

"The Soul Reapers are my team. Got it?"

Ichigo made a choked off sound but said nothing as the bluenet growled down at him from a distance that was far too close for Ichigo's liking.

"You think you can just drop in from the minors and take over? Bullshit. You ain't the hero here. You don't go out there giving out orders an'expectin' the rest of us to kiss your lily white ass like yer some sorta big shot."

"I'm not..."

"Quit acting like the fucking team captain! Kensei's the captain, not you!"

"I don't..."

"I may be stuck out there protecting your pretty little ass, but don't think I'm gonna stand by and let you act like the goddamn king of Serietei."

Grimmjow knew it sounded pretentious, and strange, two ass references and all, but he needed to say something, anything to vent the anger that was building up like a negative charge in every part of his body. Just standing in front of the orange-haired player was forcing him to bend his restraint to the limits, to hold back and not just grab a fist full of that orange ass hair and haul him off his feet so he could _'splain things_ eye to eye, make sure his message was clear.

But that was the part that really stressed Grimmjow out, that he wasn't even entirely sure what his grievances with Kurosaki were. He thought he knew. He really thought he did, but whenever he tried, he couldn't seem to put it into words to make the kid understand. And he could see the wheels turning behind the orangette's eyes right now. Insult. Defiance. Contempt. The kid didn't get it at all.

Grimmjow watched Ichigo's mouth part as he took in a breath. One wrong word from the orange-haired man and things were going to get ugly.

"Yo, Ichi! Great game m'man!" Renji's loud voice broke through the lull before Ichigo could gather enough wits and words to retaliate.

Grimmjow's head snapped around, startled. Where the fuck did they come from?

"Yeah, way to win it, buddy!" Shinji chimed in. "C'mon! We're going to the Shoten for a pint. You gotta come. I'm buyin'."

Azure eyes widened then narrowed in annoyance as his quiet c_onversation_ with the orange head was suddenly interrupted. Was it intentional? He couldn't be sure, and Kurosaki was already being pulled away from him and hazarding a dark glance back at the bluenet as he was dragged down the hall.

"You comin' Grim?" Shinji asked over his shoulder, a slight coolness in his tone that said he wasn't truly asking.

Grimmjow shook his head slowly, face set in a stoney glower, and watched silently as his teammates paraded down the corridor and celebrated Ichigo's loan goal. As it dawned on him that they had just undermined everything he'd said to the kid, his jawbone clenched so hard it nearly fused into one.

"Dammit. I gotta go back," Ichigo muttered, stopping short before being jerked forward again by the crook of his arm.

"Oh hohoho. No you don't my orange haired lemming," Renji stated firmly.

"No. I haveta go back and tell that fucker off," Ichigo argued, his anger only now beginning to peak.

"Ichigo. Did you _not_ see the look on Jaegerjaquez's face?" Shinji asked, pale brows jumping in disbelief. "You don't mess with him when he looks like that, 'less of course you got the craving for hospital food. You don't, do you?"

"Keh." Ichigo snorted at the implication that he should actually fear the bluenet. "As if he could. And where the hell does he get off telling me how to act? The guy's such a douche."

"Yeah," Renji nodded thoughtfully. "Sometimes. But he's got a valid point this time, Ichigo."

"Ya Ichi. You're not squeaky clean on this."

"Hmmph." Yeah. Well. Maybe some of what the obnoxious bluenet has said had the _tiniest_ element of truth in it. Ichigo had made some suggestions to the forward during their game that may have sounded a _little_ bossy. But the blue-haired headcase needed to hear it. So he could just suck it up.

Ichigo couldn't help his nature. Throughout his life, the role of leader always seemed to fall on his shoulders. He had a natural affinity for sports in general, a knack for finding openings and exploiting them. He had been the assistant captain of his hockey team three years running, and had been made captain in his last year.

Ichigo may have had the skill, but he had to credit his success to the man who had spent countless hours training him these past few years. Urahara Kisuke, coach of the Reaper's farm team, had taken a special interest in Ichigo from the start, giving him drills that went beyond standard training practices, while spending extra time with him on the ice. Urahara had claimed he wanted Ichigo to harness his potential, to push himself beyond what he thought he could do, but learning from the man had been as aggravating as trying to catch a fly with chopsticks.

Half the time, the cryptic bastard didn't even tell Ichigo what exactly he was supposed to be doing when they battled it out on the ice. He seemed to block every damn shot Ichigo threw at him with nothing more than his grin.

There were few things as frustrating as being told you _could_ do something, but not being told _how_ to do it. But that was all part of Urahara's method. He didn't believe in spoon feeding. He'd always maintained that one could never fully master a technique if at least a part of it didn't come from oneself.

But the orangette's efforts had paid off in spades, and now Ichigo's hockey stick was like an extra limb. Ichigo didn't often break his sticks, but whenever he did, he treated each new stick as if it were an extension of himself. He even named them, talked to them in his head, thanked them. He'd never told anybody that, of course. And it was a silly name, one he'd picked up from some anime he'd watched as a kid, but it worked for him. On some level, he'd always related to the character.

Ichigo stopped at the rows of doors that let to the player's section of the brightly lit parking lot of the arena. He turned and let his eyes wander back down the long white corridor.

Grimmjow was gone. He wondered briefly if there was a chance that they could find any conceivable way to relate to one another.

"Yo, Ichi!" Renji shouted from outside the open door. "Let it go man! Beer and ladies are waitin'!"

Could they? Nah. Guy was a jerk.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

It was a test. It had to be.

Some sort of spiritual assessment to see if Grimmjow had the balls to make it to the afterlife without taking a wrong turn and taking a nosedive into the basement for eternity.

Every word uttered between them seemed destined to derail into a war of immutable wills. And each minor confrontation merely stoked the fires, made their disdain for one another that much more pure, their dislike that much more intense. Grimmjow wasn't even looking for resolution anymore. There didn't seem to be much point. It was impossible to win against a man who was clearly even more stubborn than himself.

Even without words, those defiant brown eyes spoke volumes. He could see the judgement behind that visored face every time they stepped onto the ice. They were never meant be on the same side. If felt like they'd been at odds in some other lifetime, like they'd been pitted against each other, and each one only too happy to take up the challenge. That's how it felt.

A couple of times, as he pulled on his jersey and risked a subtle sideways glance at the man who made his hackles rise to untold heights, Grimmjow had to stop and ask himself if he was looking forward more to the game, or the possibility of having a run-in with Ichigo, no matter how trite the reason.

If he thought back on it, the kid had aroused Grimmjow's wary nature from day one, though back then he had absolutely no idea what it was about the kid that irked him. It was gut instinct, and he went with it. Grimmjow had dropped in on the team at the start of the season, quietly, a few times, to watch as they practised while his ankle had healed. He wanted to see how his team was doing and check out the newcomer. And he'd decided from the start to keep his distance from the new Reaper, feel him out, like he did with everyone he met. But the moment he'd laid eyes on him, something had somersaulted in his gut and he'd sported an instant hate-on for the orangette. And now he knew why.

Kurosaki just seemed to have a natural ability to stir up the worst side of Grimmjow. Just the sight of that bright orange mess of hair was nearly enough to reduce his composure to that of a man on PCP. There were moments where he could barely hold it together. Ichigo was a downpour on the bluenet's inner world. He ruined Grimmjow's calm waters, churned them up into choppy and turbulent, frothy waves.

Tch. I mean, c'mon. Grimmjow at least took the time to organize himself before going out in public, and this kid looked like he'd just rolled out of bed post orgasm and stuck one piece of bread and a hand in the toaster. Yet it worked, somehow. He didn't even have to try for Christ's sake. He had the looks, the body, the skill, the guts, the luck. The damn brat just made it all look so easy. And now thanks to Grimmjow, he had the protection he needed to outshine the bluenet even more.

When the fuck was Grimmjow going to get his chance to take a bite of victory for a change? Not while he was out there defending the little princess's honour, that's for sure.

And what a fucking joke, being called upon to defend a guy who for all intents and purposes spent most of his time condemning the bluenet and minimizing the value of his efforts. Grimmjow had learned early on to hate people who had the nerve to judge him from their own safe little world outside of his sphere. Besides, the orangette should fucking know better by now.

Grimmjow had always been a bit of a brawler in the minors and occasionally he'd spent more time in the penalty box during a game than he had on the ice. The Hollow's farm team seemed to produce a lot of hot tempers. They nurtured it, to a degree. But Grimmjow's temper didn't need any encouragement.

Part of the reason his parents had scraped and saved to keep him in hockey was so that he could burn off miles of excess energy, bleed off his aggression, keeping him from getting into fights and earning himself a criminal record. It had helped, and Grimmjow was grateful for his parent's insight and for their continuing support. They'd made a wise decision, and Grimmjow owed them a great debt. He couldn't do anything for his old man anymore, but his ma was still the same spitfire she'd always been. She had years ahead of her still, and now that he could afford it, Grimmjow was going to see that she spent them in comfort and style.

Hockey and Grimmjow were definitely a good fit. It gave him everything he wanted, money, respect, pussy, adrenaline, an outlet for his rather explosive temper. The game provided him with an arena where people expected him to lash out, a place where he could legitimately let his inner animal out of its cage.

He wasn't sure where his fiery temperament came from, the ever present anger that always seemed to simmer, laying in wait for a trigger to release it. Both of Grimmjow's parents had been calm, warm and loving people. He remembered himself as a kid quite clearly, even back to when he was just three years old. He was generally a happy little boy, a bit small for his age, but eager to explore the world, find out how it worked, and conquer it. He was about as normal as any kid with bright blue hair could be.

Perhaps though, it was the names he'd been called as he grew, or the bigger kids that picked on him, taking his lunch, shoving his face in the mud, the ones who had acted like they wanted his friendship when they were really just baiting a trap. People couldn't be trusted. That much he had learned. And the only way to stay ahead of predators like that was to become the animal. Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez was never going to be pushed around or locked inside a dumpster again. He trained. He grew. He hardened. By the age of twelve, even the bigger kids avoided him.

Yes, maybe that had an effect on his love of such a violent sport, but that wasn't his only reason for pushing himself so hard. Despite the orange-haired asshole's well known opinion, Grimmjow _did_ want to become a better player, but he had a job to do first. He had to let the other teams know that they couldn't push the Reapers around. They were all tough men in their own rights, but they played a gentleman's game of hockey, and they didn't possess the killer instincts of someone like Grimmjow. So, they got creamed in a physical game. And that's where Grimmjow came in. He had been redundant with the Hollows, the bulk of the team already stacked with hard hitting offensive players, players like Yammy Riyalgo, Ulquiorra Chiffer, Zommari Rureaux, and Grimmjow's personal favourite, Nnoitra Jiruga. The Hollow's had plenty of enforcement, but the Soul Reaper's clearly needed him.

As far as Grimmjow was concerned, there was a certain level of justifiable violence in the game he loved. There were those who came to watch a nice clean good ol' hockey game, but then there were the more vocal element, the spectators who came not only to see the rush to the net and the amazing goals, but who paid to see the bone-breaking hits and the wild fights that usually broke out as teams became frustrated, and hated rivals clashed.

The fans demanded blood and carnage, and Grimmjow provided it . There was no arguing with his place amongst the fan's hearts. The dramatic rise in attendance since Grimmjow had come aboard clearly attested to that.

Grimmjow made hockey fun again.

The blue-haired man was was feeling distinctly cramped now. He'd had free reign during the start of his season, allowed to flex his hockey muscles, enforcing when he felt the need, and scoring and assisting when he had the chance. He still wasn't busting any heads in that field, but every shot, every opportunity, was another lesson learned, and inch by inch he could feel himself improving. All he needed was ice time and practice.

And now the infamous Sexta had been reduced to a fucking babysitter for a spoiled brat.

_Get out there and make sure Kurosaki fucking Ichigo doesn't get hurt? Yes, coach._

_You want me to lick his bag while I'm out there? No? __Just trail around after him instead of playing hockey? Oh sure. No problem coach._

_Oh, and coach, would you like to suck MY balls? No? Well, if you change your mind..._

_Che._

Grimmjow was already breathing heavily as he leaned the weight of his body hard onto his left leg and swung around behind the net on his ninth pass around the the rink, the muscles in his calves and thighs beginning to stretch and loosen from his warm up exercises.

It wasn't the physical exertion that had his blood pumping or caused his breath to quicken. The bluenet was too high-energy and far too well conditioned to even begin to feel tired yet. It was the sight of bright orange hair jutting out from beneath the black helmet, like the sun teasing from behind dark clouds that got him, and the taunting brush of cool air from the person who had just passed him, so close that they nearly touched, that set the bluenet on edge.

He watched the Reaper's number fifteen pull away from him and disappear down the ice. Kurosaki was toying with him. He was still obviously pissed after their little conference in the hall the other night. But if he thought that he could bait Grimmjow by overtaking him during practice in some pathetic little attempt at a race, he was so wrong. It took a lot more than being passed in a warm-up to stir up Grimmjow's bite reflex.

Grimmjow scowled, taking the next corner sharply and raising a fine mist of ice crystals into the air as he hooked his blades into the ice. Clearly, their quiet talk hadn't worked, and Kurosaki still needed to get a clue. Well, Grimmjow might get a chance to give the kid a little _reminder_ today. He grinned as he finished circling behind the the net at the other end of the rink.

All the men were on the ice preparing to go through their routine of practice drills. After that, they would split into teams and run through some plays. That's when Grimmjow would strike. It wouldn't be much, just a little nudge to refresh the orangette's memory so he wouldn't forget just what it was that Grimmjow was protecting him from. Ungrateful little brat.

Nearly an hour later, the Reaper's coach yelled out a series of names, assigning the players into smaller teams, and Grimmjow perked up, delighted to hear Kurosaki's name in the group that he was going to play against. The little shit had been nothing more than an annoying stumbling block and a self possessed egotist to work with for the past two weeks, and it was time for Grimmjow to let off some steam. If the kid thought he didn't like working _with_ him, then Grimmjow would give him a taste of what it was really like to go _against_ him.


	6. Chapter 6

_Hello, lovelies. I want to thank those of you who are reading and reviewing, and also to thank all of you for being patient and sticking with me. I'm having some writer's block and I think I stared at this chapter for, like, a week. But the fun and interaction is just beginning so I hope you'll keep on coming back. ^_^_

_Lots of love to you,_

_Junichiblue_

* * *

******CHAPTER SIX**

Ichigo was dog tired.

He had no desire to set even one single aching toe on the ice after a gruelling three-plus hours of practice. It was somewhere after the second hour of puke inducing skating drills and the extra sets of demanding conditioning exercises that Ichigo had become convinced that the coach was ___hell bent _on killing off every member of his beloved hockey team. The man claimed the extra push was to help 'whip you boys into shape'. But, it felt a lot more like penance, and even the hardiest players were scowling and beginning to grumble.

Ichigo stifled a yawn and reached down to rub at one of his calves as he sat on the bench awaiting his turn. It had begun to ache and twitch, and he straightened his leg, catching the muscle and working it with a rough hand through his thick hockey socks as it threatened to go into spasm. He growled as he rubbed the offending limb until it finally relaxed. They were only allowed to sit for a few minutes at a time so that their muscles didn't begin to stiffen, and Ichigo was determined to use every second of that time to catch his breath and gather up his remaining energy.

Fuck. This couldn't be over soon enough. He was so tiiiirred. And he had planned to do so many things this afternoon. A mile long list of to do's was folded up in the sleeve of his wallet and waiting for his attention. He huffed as he rested uncomfortably in a puddle of sweat on the bench, grabbing a hand towel and mopping the moisture from his forehead before it could drip down into his eyes and burn. So many things he wanted to get done. But, based on the way his muscles were already burning, unless he was a masochist, his day was thoroughly shot.

He'd be surprised if he even had the energy to eat once he got home. The only things that even held any appeal at all a the moment was the idea of a hot bath of epsom salts and then bed. A bath was out of the question, though. He'd drown in it for sure. And he should probably go to the clinic and get a post practice massage to help keep his muscles from tightening and cramping but he was certain he'd end up asleep on the table. And there was no way he'd be able to wake up enough to drive home after that if he did.

Ichigo jerked when somebody shoved him in the shoulder.

"Yo, space case. Wake up already. Our group's up."

Ichigo swivelled his head towards the blond haired man who was standing beside him and threw him an irritated look. Shinji was grinning, obviously enjoying his own personal joke at Ichigo's expense as usual.

"Oh. God," Ichigo groused. "Let's just do this so I can go to bed."

He watched Shinji's smile widen then suddenly turn down as the blond slowly climbed over the boards. Ichigo smirked. It made the obnoxious grin a little easier to take, knowing that even thought the blond appeared to be in good spirits, he was actually in just as much pain as Ichigo.

Ichigo forced his muscles into motion and managed to haul his leg over the boards, and miraculously, the other one as well. His only solace was that the practice from hell was nearly over. They were wrapping up their group sessions, and Ichigo's team of five and their opponents were the last to go.

He skated into position, already aware of the play the coach wanted them to run through. Moments later the puck was dropped and Ichigo's side had control as planned. The other side's goal was to stop their attack, regain control of the puck and score. The play lasted a couple of minutes and ran without a hitch, the other side eventually wrestling the small black disc away from Ichigo's group and putting it in the net. Now it was the his side's turn to steal the puck. They lined up once more and the whistle blew.

A few seconds into the play, the puck was passed to Ichigo who tore up the centre of the rink, catching the puck on his stick. He picked up speed, steering the puck expertly around one of his rival players as he avoided an offence-man with ease. He passed off the puck and cut across the ice to the right, avoiding a defence-man and coming in along the boards as the puck was slapped across the rink back to him. He could see a piece of the net now from this angle. This was his chance. Ichigo drew back his stick and prepared to let fly, and suddenly, the puck was gone.

Ichigo swivelled around to see sparkling blue eyes and a self satisfied grin. A whistle called the play to a stop.

"You lose summthin'?"

"Grimmjow," Ichigo muttered bitterly. Why was it always Grimmjow? It almost always seemed to be the bluenet that caught Ichigo during practice plays and shut him down. It was infuriating.

"Mmm. I like the way you say my name whenever I steal the puck from you," the bluenet hummed, leaning in close enough so that only Ichigo could hear him. The Sexta turned and skated away, still grinning and leaving Ichigo to melts holes in the ice as he stared at it, trying to figure out where the heck the bluenet had even come from that time. And what the hell was with the bedroom talk? Sometimes Grimmjow had a way about him that unsettled the orangette. He oozed sex appeal. No doubt about that, but did he really have to wield it like a weapon and dump it all over Ichigo?

"Alright men." the coach yelled across the ice. "Let's try it again. We'll do this over until we get it right."

Ichigo seethed internally, but he had to give the blue-haired forward his due credit. For all of the neanderthal's bad points, he did have skills, like the ability to keep pace with nearly every other player in the league. And the bluenet just never seemed to tire. In practice, Ichigo could never shake him loose. The guy was like frigging static cling.

He sighed as they lined up again, trying to regain his focus. That timber was still ringing in his ears as he braced his stick against the ice. Just as the puck was about to drop, Ichigo glanced ahead and to his left to catch Grimmjow staring at him. And then, the bluenet blew him a kiss. Ichigo flinched. Uh-oh. That was either another attempt to fluster him even more, or a boorish warning. The orangette scowled and tried to shrug it off. He did not have time for Grimmjow's games. He was tired and fed up, and his goal was to get a goddamn goal and go home to bed. Screw Grimmjow and his childish mind-fuck.

An instant later, the whistle blew and Ichigo was repeating the manoeuvres again. He veered along the boards and caught the puck, but he didn't get the chance to wind up this time as two hundred pounds of hateful bluenet came barrelling at him with one goal clearly in mind. To crush the life out of him. Ichigo barely had time to brace for the hit as Grimmjow ran into him hard enough to lift him off his feet. The bluenet seemed hell bent on grinding every part of him into the boards, using his whole body to deliver his painful message. Ichigo grunted in surprise as he felt his ribs creak under the impact. Then, as suddenly as he was there, Grimmjow was gone again, leaving Ichigo to drop to the ice.

He barely heard the whistle go as he lay there catching his breath through gritted teeth, currently his soul focus in life. Breath under control again, Ichigo shook his head in a futile attempt to detach the glowing celestial bodies that seemed to have fallen into orbit around him. He cringed. The side to side motion was not the great idea he thought it would be. Ichigo pushed against the ice in an effort to lever himself up, but every move he made seemed to accelerate their movements. He grunted, and instead resigned himself to just lying there on the ice and being relatively still, taking deep breaths as the disorientation slowly passed.

He wasn't a stranger to having his bell rung, and by comparison, this wasn't bad at all. The dazed feeling would pass if he just kept quiet for a moment or two. It was no problem really when he thought about it. He could use the time to think of ways to pay back the man who'd just laid him out.

The slicing sound of sharp steel blades shearing away the first layers of ice next to the orangette's ear cut sharply into Ichigo's quiet time. A light mist of cool dampness settled on his cheek where the ice had sprayed up from anonymous blades and drifted onto him.

"Ichigo. You okay?"

Oh. It was Shinji.

"Peachy," the orangette muttered, head resting sideways on his right glove, while the right side of his body lay pressed up against the boards.

"Soooo... You gonna get up?" Shinji bent forward, both hands on his knees, his head leaning to the side and falling in line with Ichigo's so he could better view the contemplative expression on the brown-eyed player's face. Something in the hard brown eyes told Shinji that whatever Ichigo was considering as he lay there probably wouldn't amount to anything good. And he had an idea just who the orangette was thinking about.

"I haven't decided," Ichigo answered flatly. "S'the coach gonna make us keep practising?"

Shinji glanced over towards the bench to where their esteemed coach appeared to be praying to a deity in between yelling at a somewhat bored looking blue-haired offence-man. The other players were milling around the bench, a few of them taking the initiative and heading off the ice for a well deserved shower.

"Mmm... nah. I think he's done torturing us for now." Shinji grinned widely and reached down to help Ichigo to his feet.

He skated back to the bench gingerly, Shinji jabbering away by his side. He was keeping the conversation chipper and casual but Ichigo knew the over-protective blond was just checking him out. Shinji lead him to the team doctor who asked Ichigo a couple of questions and then brushed him aside, and Ichigo was relieved when the smaller man lagged behind to talk to the coach's assistant.

Ichigo trudged wearily down the long corridor towards their lockers, a hot shower, and sweet freedom. The room was oddly quiet when he entered it. Most of the men were silently stripping down to bare skin and taking turns quickly rinsing off the day's accumulation of grease and sweat.

Ichigo couldn't help but let his eyes stray towards the man walking naked out of the shower room. No. Not walking. Fucking parading. Tanned skin seemed stretched almost too tight over thick layers of muscle as water droplets glistened on the smooth wet surface. Ichigo scowled. He didn't look as tired as the rest of the men, except for the slight limp, Ichigo noticed. That ankle injury he'd sustained in his pre-season car accident was obviously still plaguing him, but Ichigo would never have guessed that with what he'd seen almost daily from the bluenet's performance on the ice.

The orangette tore his gaze away from the only man he knew in his life who actually sparked an annoying case of body envy in him. He was far too exhausted to give a single shit about it right now though, and he began removing his gear until he was down to his skivvies, then they too were tossed aside. The air in the room felt cool against his damp skin now that the layers of gear were gone, and he sighed in relief. He grabbed a towel and let it hang loose in his hand as he trekked towards the shower stalls, unaware that a pair of sapphire eyes were watching him, studying his back, dropping down to the lighter skin of his softly rounded bare rear before tearing away.

Grimmjow looked down at his grey tee shirt and fumbled with it for a moment, suddenly finding the simple task of getting it right side out and front to back nearly impossible. Kurosaki didn't even look like he'd been affected by Grimmjow's love tap. He was too busy trying to ignore the bluenet to death while parading his unmarred, lean physique into the showers just to show Grimmjow that he didn't matter.

The bluenet glanced up in mild irritation at the sound of one of his team mates mangling his name.

"Grimmy, ease the fuck up will ya?" Shinji admonished as he passed by the bluenet. "We kind of need the kid in one piece."

"Yeah, so don't go breaking him already." Shiro cautioned as well as he strutted by, pale and naked, towards the showers.

Grimmjow initial reaction was to unleash a slew of insults on his teammates and tell them to go fuck their mothers, but he quickly thought better of it. It wouldn't be smart to go alienating himself. Though he did tend to keep his distance and his interactions light and casual most of the time, he generally got along with most of the guys. Except for one. And he'd quite thoroughly had it up to the tips of his blue locks with playing Mr. Nice Guy.

With a mouth like Kurosaki's, the bluenet initially thought he could afford to hold back and let the kid hang himself instead. Eventually, Kurosaki would step on enough toes, and the team would turn against him. All Grimmjow would have to do was wait and keep his temper in check and let nature take its course. That was the plan. At least, it had been. But it seemed that Ichigo's low opinion and haughty attitude were almost solely directed at Grimmjow. He really couldn't take much more of the kid. Sooner or later, something was going to give.

Ichigo stood under the steady stream of hot water and sighed as it pelted against his skin. It felt like absolute heaven as it gently massaged his abused muscles. He knew others were still waiting to get in though, so after only a minute he twisted the tap and shut off the valve. He shuffled the towel quickly over his wet skin before wrapping it low on his waist and making his way back to his locker.

The bluenet was changed, he noted, and gathering his things, putting everything into his sports bag but his skates. Ichigo's eyebrows drew together as he observed the blue-haired player's post-game routine. The guy was odd. The team had people to wash their stuff for them, but Grimmjow took his gear home with him all the time, like he was protecting it and didn't want anybody touching his stuff. Keh. As if he was that special. The guy was just irrational and territorial. Oh yeah. Definitely. Ichigo still couldn't quite believe the bluenet had actually had the nerve to tell Ichigo that this was ___his_team.

The Sexta's head came up and Ichigo narrowly dodged blue eyes that he was sure had latched onto him. The orangette was confident that he'd made sure to look away before the man could catch him staring. It wouldn't do to let him know that he'd managed to get Ichigo's attention.

But he had. And Ichigo already knew exactly what he was going to do in retaliation for the Sexta's earlier threat and for his excessively hard hit.

Absolutely nothing. He was just going to continue to be his apparently loveable self. Just do what came naturally to him. It seemed that every single thing he did or said got underneath the bluenet's skin, and so, he would easily win this little competition if he just kept on as he was. The thought made him smile as he dropped his towel and scrounged for his street clothes.

It made him smile, and then it made him frown. Every now and then, something about the idea of the bluenet hating him so completely flared up like some internal rash and irritated him, and he would admit, on rare occasions it bummed him out. He really wasn't used to being disliked for the most part. And the few people who'd actually hated him growing up really didn't matter. They were just thugs and bullies who teased him because he looked different. But getting along with the blue-haired terror mattered. Their conflict affected their job. They needed to get along for the team's sake. They had to like each other for the greater good. Ichigo snorted as he tightened the strings of his black joggers.

Greater good his ass. Grimmjow just needed to stay out of his way. But he'd made it clear that he wouldn't. Well, if Grimmjow ___thought_he hated Ichigo now, then Ichigo would ___really_give him a reason to hate him. The orangette considered that line of thought for a moment as he re-laced his running shoe for the third time.

No. Ichigo would be himself, and if Ichigo knew Grimmjow at all, that would be enough to break him.


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

A thick snowfall blanketed the landscape of Seireitei as Kurosaki Ichigo trudged across the parking lot towards his hometown's arena.

It looked like the perfect day. Crystal clear. Bright and still.

A limitless, blue sky spread itself out above the orange haired hockey player. He squinted against the daylight as he paced across the lot. The sun's reflection on the fresh snow was so bright it was nearly blinding. That was the thing about winter days. Even though the picture perfect scene always gave the illusion of sun and warmth, it was in fact very cold.

It was late afternoon, four pm to be precise about it, and the sun was already bearing down on the horizon. And despite the fact that a lazy wind was beginning to blow, signalling a change in the weather, and slipping her icy fingers right down the front of his open jacket, Ichigo did nothing to prevent the goosebumps from raising the nearly invisible hairs on his chest. It was refreshing. Invigorating. He was enjoying it, savouring the chill, because in less than three hours, he would be nothing but hot, sweaty, fatigued, and frustrated.

A cloudy apparition formed in the air as he sighed aloud. It curled and spread like steam in front of him, then vanished as if it had never been.

Ichigo wished for a moment that he could perform the same trick, take a day off, or two, or three, or move... to another city, another team... hell... another career.

The thin layer of snow that had ducked beneath the blade of the plough squeaked beneath the souls of his winter boots. Brown eyes shut for a moment. He was being ridiculous... a child. He did not have the luxury of being a child anymore. Ichigo opened his eyes and looked to the thing that usually lifted his spirits, and he snorted at the irony, that another glance up to the purest blue sky had only served to pull his mood lower. That mask of blue was just an image for the world to see, a shell, a false beauty that hid what really lay behind it... a cold, violent, empty space. Blackness and distance. Unreachable.

Annoying.

Ichigo shook his head and looked up at the rounded building that dominated the landscape ahead of him. Hockey. He had to keep his mind on hockey. Just that, and only that. Okay, then.

So far, Ichigo's day had been good. Well. Nothing bad had happened, anyway. But he had a pretty damn good idea how the _night_ would end. Another loss was practically inevitable. It was a terrible attitude to go into a game with, but he was struggling just to keep his head straight these days. In fact, he did his level best not to even think of hockey until he was at the stadium.

He heaved his gear higher up onto his shoulder as he avoided a slick patch of ice.

"Nice Ichigo," he mumbled. "Avoid your problems, why don't you?"

_And why the hell not? They'll still be there tomorrow_

_Jesus Christ. Listen to him._

He snorted, then glanced around, eyes scanning the parking lot in a transient burst of concern to see if anyone had noticed.

Nothing.

Ichigo growled to himself, shrugging further into his jacket out of habit, and kept walking. The lot was nearly empty except for a few cars that had pulled in just ahead of him. He was one of the first to arrive. He didn't want to be here, but he needed time to gear up and get mentally ready for the game. He needed to focus. And as soon as it was over, he'd stuff it all back into his hockey bag and throw it in the corner and think about the other things in his life that mattered. Like his family.

Christmas was nearing, and though it was still a week away, it seemed like the day was already upon them. He had to admit, he was excited about the season, despite the intolerable advertising campaigns and Christmas jingles that had been jamming up the airwaves of every television and radio since practically the day after Halloween.

Ichigo had always liked Christmas as a rule. The time he spent with his family... well, his sisters... he always considered time well spent. And this year he could afford to get them the presents they really wanted, instead of sticking to the family rule of forty dollars or less. Ichigo's father had always been a bit of a stickler over giving presents. He'd made it a firm rule not to spend outrageous amounts of money on special occasions, because gifts, he said, were about the thought you put into it, about showing that you knew a person and cared enough to pay attention to the things they enjoyed, not how much you spent. Well, his old man may be a bit 'round the bend most of the time, but he'd gotten things right as far as raising his kids was concerned. They'd all turned out pretty darn good in Ichigo's opinion, and they did know how to make each other happy on forty dollars or less.

Too bad Ichigo was going to break that rule this year. And there was no way his dad could throw a fit about it either.

Things weren't always sweet at the clinic and sometimes Isshin had to make small sacrifices to give his family all the things they needed, like college tuition. Ichigo knew his dad had set up college funds for both the girls, but it wouldn't even cover half of everything. And though the girls were both seventeen now and had jobs of their own, it would still be a struggle. Ichigo didn't want his sisters to worry about payments and jobs while they attended classes, nor did he want them to be saddled with debt after college, so he was going to make a hefty donation of his own to each of the girls' funds.

On second thought, his dad _would_ pitch a fit, and he would probably go and scratch at that insufferable painting of their late mother, whining on and on about how Ichigo was now acting like the man of the house, yadda yadda. Well, someone had to be. He smiled to himself as he crossed the parking lot, content to be lost in thought. But, as Ichigo neared the outer doors, and the massive building loomed ever larger, his smile faded.

He had another home game tonight, and on no conceivable level was Ichigo fucking looking forward to it. Not even for the workout. For the first time in a long time, the last thing he felt like doing was playing hockey.

They were barely two and a half months into the season, and the team was playing like it had lost an engine. Things weren't looking good for the Reapers at all. Not at all. Ichigo, for one, was off his game. His usual average of twelve shots on net per game, and at least two or three goals, had fallen in just a few weeks down to a miserable five and fuck all. Ichigo had been towing the line in penalties lately too. His normally only moderately volatile temper was now a complete disaster.

And despite Ichigo's best efforts to avoid the humiliation of a shut out, their last two _away_ games had resulted in exactly that. They didn't score a single goal. They were fucking skunked, and by teams that by all rights they shouldn't have had any trouble beating. Last night's home advantage win against the Hollow's had given the team a small boost, but their confidence needed a lot more than just a one goal win in the closing minutes of a neck and neck game to be restored.

Ichigo was at a complete loss. He wasn't used to sucking this bad. It just wasn't his style. He almost always found a way to break through the other team's defences and take down their goalie. His shots on goal weren't the highest in the NHL but usually, when he saw an opening and took a shot, it invariably found its way in. There wasn't a goalie in the league that wasn't a little bit shaken when they saw number fifteen cross the blue line into their territory and wind up for a slap shot.

Or at least that's how it had been until recently. Ichigo was in some kind of slump. His timing was off. His temper was short. And his nerves were shot. Something was definitely upsetting Ichigo's and the team's mojo, and Ichigo could point to at least one giant, blue, upsetting thing, a key source of friction, the one player who was the nails to Ichigo's chalkboard. By now, Ichigo was so far off his game that he wasn't entirely sure if getting away from the sexta would even help, but Ichigo had asked for a change in his lineup anyway. And surprise surprise, the team's coach wouldn't hear it. He felt like he'd hit a brick wall, but he wasn't alone.

The whole team was in an upheaval, and they needed to start winning some games if they had a hope in hell of ever making the playoffs.

Last night had been one giant fuck up after another, until the dying minutes of the game when Ichigo actually managed to break the tie and slide a shot past the Hollow's goalie. And he'd done it after Grimmjow had been kicked out. He felt rather vindicated by that fact, but he wondered if it wouldn't somehow come back to bite him in the ass. Maybe he was being paranoid, but he swore up and down that Grimmjow had given him one mean look as he left the ice after pummelling Ulquiorra into it. He was pretty sure Grimmjow was going to find a way to blame him. He always did. The Sexta was known for throwing world class hissy fits when things didn't go his way. Some might call it hockey, but Ichigo knew better. The blue haired enforcer often vented his frustrations on the other team's players. You could almost rate his anger by the body count.

And from Ichigo's recent personal experience, the enforcer wasn't shy about taking it out on his own teammates as well.

In a round about way... more aptly... a passive aggressive bitch way... Grimmjow had taken some of his ire out on Ichigo last night. And he had a rather embarrassing set of bruises in a very personal place to show for it.

...

The cold metal frames of the doors to the building screeched in protest as they dragged against each other, then closed, and the team's private parking area was again devoid of movement and sound. A minute or two passed before the wintery peace was once gain breached, this time by the distant deep rumble of eight cylinders and a large exhaust pipe.

A lone bird, perched atop a light post, took flight as the guttural growl drew closer.

Grimmjow swung into the parking lot and kicked the gears of his sports car down with careless disregard as he brought the vehicle to a hard stop in what he assumed to be the general vicinity of his usual spot. He couldn't quite make out the lines between his space and the next with the dusting of snow that had settled since the plough had been by, but as of now that was of little concern to him.

The engine continued to idle while his right hand remained clasped tight around the black leather clutch as if it were a vibrating lifeline. He wasn't really here until he let it go. Hell, he might as well have been napping at the wheel on the drive over. He was so fucking distracted, he barely even remembered getting here.

Grimmjow growled to himself inside the vehicle. He had half a mind to slip the clutch back into first and just keep on driving, but he was under contract. It was a job. And he was no flake. But did they even need him?

The minute Grimmjow had left last night's game, the party had started. The Reapers had won. Life had gone on without him, only better.

Tonight was day two of back to back home games. Grimmjow had been ejected from the game last night, and no amount of creative diversion could unlock the jaws of his mind from the grudge it had been set on nursing. Grimmjow had woken up late in the morning just as disgruntled as he'd been when he'd finally gone to bed the night before.

He'd done his laundry, failed at jacking off, tried to watch a movie, then ended up pacing holes in his carpet before eventually heading out to the gym down the street and working out his not so repressed anger and sexual issues on the punching bags in the corner. Thank god the place was open late and virtually empty. His patience for people was drained dry. He needed to be left alone to let his grievances out on the sand hard, black bag. Not that his workout had even scratched the surface, let alone made a dent in his sour mood. He'd wailed on the leather bags until his knuckles ached, but there was no relief for it. The bag was a lousy replacement, and he couldn't take his frustrations out on the one person he wanted to. The image of the orange haired root of his problems was consuming, and the beating he wanted to lay on him was filling every conceivable space in his head.

Grimmjow pulled the keys from the ignition. Just the thought of seeing Kurosaki again sent an unpleasant shudder of uncontrolled anger careening through his gut. He wanted that punching bag again, but he had to shake it off. He had to get his anger under control. This game was important. The media and his team would be watching, even more so because of his less than stellar performance last night.

His father might even be watching. But he had given him nothing to be proud of.

The curve of the steering wheel was still cool as it pressed against his forehead. The dashboard rattled at the impact as the side of his fist came down hard.

He was coping. He was coping fine.

"Dammit," he muttered.

Grimmjow shoved the door open, hauled himself out of the driver's seat and slammed the door shut before heading to the trunk for his gear. He didn't know what surprises tonight's game was going to hold but he had a feeling, just an odd feeling, that something was going to come to a head, especially if last night's game against their much loathed opponents, the Hollows, was any indication.

_**...Last night's game**_

They'd been fighting tooth and nail for two straight periods, and as they headed into the third, the battle weary Soul Reapers were beginning to feel as demoralized as they were physically exhausted. From the moment the puck had dropped, the Hollows had had them on the defensive. Their strategy, it seemed, was to run the Reapers into the ground with bruising hits and a barrage of aggressive attacks. They were as dirty as ever, and even the referees didn't seem able to catch all the penalties. Dirty distraction tactics were making the reffing difficult, and the Hollow's were getting away with murder.

Shots on net were nearly 30 to 12 with no sign that the Hollows were slowing down. They had always been a dangerous team, but in just a few months, their new coach, Aizen Sosuke, had turned them into soulless animals. Their mandate was to either score or destroy.

And winning or not, they just didn't let up.

The Reaper's blue-eyed enforcer was barely able to keep up with the onslaught. His presence was having little impact, and his frustration was growing visibly. He was far from alone, though.

Even Ichigo's temper was fraying. It was one of the roughest games Ichigo had played in a long time, and the calls against the Hollow's were having little effect on their unsportsmanlike behaviour. Another Reaper was dumped into the corner by an illegal hit, and Ichigo let loose on the referee standing closest to the injured player.

"Hey ref! I thought we were playin' hockey here!" Brown eyes flashed in anger as number fifteen tagged after the referee. "Open your friggin' eyes! That's a five minute penalty!"

According to the ref, though, a two minute penalty was good enough. Ichigo fumed as he left the ice to catch his breath.

His own piss-poor performance and the growing list of bad calls weren't the only things bothering Ichigo as the orangette took a seat along with the rest of the Soul Reapers. He and Grimmjow had been fighting like proverbial cats and dogs all evening. They were just as out of tune as ever but for some reason, the tension between them had risen high enough to melt the very ice they played on.

They were helping out the opposing team more than their own with missed passes and timing that was so far off, even little kids on their first set of skates could have made it look easy. Grimmjow had been no help whatsoever in the first two periods, and Ichigo had been accused of shooting his mouth off as usual when he'd barked at the bluenet to try to play _with_ his teammate for a change. The words Grimmjow had used in response were simply not fit to print.

The end of the first period saw the two rival teammates locked in a heated discussion in the hallway to the locker rooms as players gave them both a wide berth. The blue-haired enforcer had his lips pulled back in a threatening snarl as he and Ichigo faced-off over the same tired disagreements. Accusations were flying back and forth. Finger pointing and denying were in full force. The last of other Reapers shuffled by. They'd seen it before, though not quite so intense as this, but everyone seemed willing to let the two players settle their own problems. No one wanted to get between them.

"I was wide open, and you didn't fucking pass the puck! I coulda scored, asshole!" Grimmjow's arctic blue eyes were staring straight into heated brown as he tried to tear a strip off of Ichigo. Tried, was the operative word. He knew it would only lead to more frustration because Kurosaki was the mouthiest know-it-all Grimmjow had ever had to play with.

"The Hollows were all over you! You never would have made that shot. If I'd passed it, they would've grabbed it and run with it and probably scored another goal on us!"

"Don't you fuckin' tell me what I can do!" Grimmjow drove a gloved finger into Ichigo's shoulder. Something sparked in amber eyes and Ichigo yearned to set his fist against the side of that angular jaw, but the shorter player ignored the jab. If he didn't, there would be a brawl and that would be totally unprofessional, even for them.

"You know what? Quit bitching at me about it. What about the shot you had just before that, huh?"

Grimmjow's scowl turned darker. He knew what Kurosaki was going on about, and he knew he'd blown a good scoring opportunity. And he knew this conversation wasn't going to get him anywhere, but for some inane reason he'd started it anyway.

"Yeah." Ichigo smirked and nodded at the look Grimmjow was giving him. "You _had_ a chance to score and you didn't take it. Maybe the coach has gone blind and didn't see it, but I did."

"What're you, the fucking scoring police? I don't give a shit what y-..."

"Well, maybe you should give a shit! You had an easy shot when their goalie went down. If was a fucking gift shot! We could have tied the game right then but you were more interested in fucking rubbing one out!"

The heated conversation seemed to lurch to a sudden and decidedly awkward stop. Grimmjow's snarl fell away, and his angry expression slid into stunned confusion before slowly, gradually, morphing into wary bemusement.

Ichigo cringed as he realized what he'd just said, his tongue full of Novocain, and his brain left scrambling for purchase. But it was too late to pull the words back and reorganize them. They were out.

The silent lull that hung in the air between them, before the bluenet found his voice, stretched from seconds into centuries, until it began to seem to Ichigo that time itself had stopped to see what all the fuss was about.

Grimmjow's head finally listed to the side and one eyebrow twitched upwards while the other one drew low.

"Say what?" he demanded slowly, his voice dropping into a low tone laced with uncertainty and bluenet's whole demeanour seemed stranded, straddling the line between aggression and confusion.

"I mean... rubbing out one of their players!" Ichigo corrected himself at a volume that was much higher than he needed to use to be heard. His blunder and that gravelly tenor were combining in ways that were oddly distressing to the younger man, and he felt his face heat up another ten degrees, flushing yet another shade of angry red as he seethed.

"Fuck! You piss me off!" he snapped.

"Hah!" The bluenet barked into Ichigo's face, taking another step closer and looming in front the shorter man. He cocked his head to the other side and sneered.

"Piss you off," he began, voice lowering to something taunting yet quietly intimate, "or turn you on?"

Ichigo bristled further at the ludicrous insinuation that he was into men, especially Grimmjow, and he rose onto the balls of his feet, determined to meet the bluenet eye for eye. Ichigo was frankly at a complete loss over his Freudian slip. His stomach was busy trying to turn itself inside out, and the blood in his face was scorching his cheeks, but if he backed down now he would definitely look like a chump.

"Piss. Me. Off," he growled. Without another word, Ichigo turned and stormed away. He dearly hoped the bluenet wasn't going to take a parting shot. One word. Just one, and was going to lose it.

Grimmjow watched with amused interest as the younger man fled. And that is definitely what it was. Fleeing. Grimmjow had won this argument fare and square. He didn't even care anymore what they were fighting about, or that it hadn't been resolved. He'd won. Didn't matter how he did it, especially against Kurosaki. Winning was all that counted in his books.

Grimmjow frowned as he turned and walked in the same direction. That had been an odd turn of events. He knew he had the goods, but com'on. Seriously. That oddly worded remark had weirded him out for a moment, and he'd nearly drawn a blank. Nearly. He didn't really think the kid was gay or anything, but Kurosaki had just made it so easy. How could he not play with a line like that? And the effect it had on the kid left him feeling deliciously sated, for the moment. Kurosaki had turned seventeen shades of red. It was the best thing that had happened to Grimmjow all week.

He thought about it for a moment, then grinned as he pictured the angry blush and the subsequent clash of orange and red. Yup. It was indeed the highlight. His one regret? He wished he'd had the means to snap a photo with his cell. It would look great blown up and stapled to the locker room ceiling.

...

The second period dragged on and the Reapers were quick to empty the bench and try once again to regroup for the third. It had been just another twenty minutes of... well... same shit, different period.

As soon as the buzzer sounded to signal the end of the second period and the bench had cleared, Grimmjow made a beeline for Ichigo in the hallway once again, catching him on his way through the door to the dressing room, hoping to have words with him before the coach came along.

Ichigo had yelled at him to pass off the puck, but Grimmjow had been winding up for the shot. It was good, goddammit. The goaltender was being screened by his own defence-man, and there was every chance that the puck would slip through. But no. That smarmy shit had screamed Grimmjow's name at the last possible second, and something in the orangette's tenor had seriously thrown Grimmjow for a fucking loop. He'd nearly tripped over his own skates. _The fuck?_

Grimmjow caught up with the shorter player as he straggled behind the team heading into the locker room. He grabbed the shorter man's arm and swung him around.

"Don't distract me like that again, ya little twerp," Grimmjow snarled. "I _had_ that shot until you fucking threw me off!"

Like a live wire, Ichigo was instantly reactive, so much so that it actually surprised the blue-haired Sexta.

"As if I threw you off!" the younger man barked back. "And you should have passed," he added, scowling and gesturing wildly with one gloved hand. "I had the whole damn net!"

The bluenet barely heard the younger man's response over the din in his head. He almost regretted saying anything, and he needed to get away from him already or he was going to lose his shit. But, he came here to make a point, and he was going to make it.

"You fucked me, asshole!" Grimmjow hissed. "Do it again, and I'll fuckin' ruin you!" He snarled down at Ichigo, barely snapping his mouth shut before he actually _caved_ to the sudden strong urge to _bite_ the orange-haired man. Instead, he shoved Ichigo roughly aside so that he could enter the change room just as the coach came around the corner.

Ichigo's heart thudded inside his ribcage, and he rubbed his chest where the the bluenet had pushed him. He barely noticed how fast his heart was racing. Instead he rolled his eyes at the bluenet's ridiculous attempt to intimidate him while he watched the retreating man disappear into the crowded locker room, brown eyes taking in the outline of the naturally broad physique that he knew lay disguised under thick layers of gear.

"Kurosaki. What are you standing around for?"

Ichigo flinched as if he was a little kid who'd just been caught doing something bad, and his deep amber eyes swung around towards the gruff voice of the team's coach.

"We need to do some damage control here. Let's go," the man ordered.

Ichigo abruptly leaned his weight onto his bladed heels, pressing his back into the door frame to let the coach get by before he let himself into the room.

"Alright boys." The older man's booming voice was dampened by the bodies of Ichigo's team mates as he passed the orangette and moved deep into the change room. "We're down by one point and we've got twenty minutes to fix this. Now, what are we gonna do about it?"

Ichigo straightened up and squared his shoulders, a small smirk making its way onto his face as he followed behind the coach. For such a bad boy, the Sexta was a real comedian. He was going to ruin Ichigo? That was the emptiest fucking threat he'd ever heard.


	8. Chapter 8

**I had hoped hockey would start up again, but, the bunch of ****** mother ****** cannot agree on shit. I was hoping for the moral boost to help me write this faster. But thanks to the return of GRIMMJOW I got my boost and I've finally managed to get something presentable.**

**I apologize for Kubo'ing you though. O.o**

**It's not on purpose. My writing style can be very long winded. The story, plot. and character growth has to feel realistic to me or I won't post it.**

**A beta would be helpful to trim the fat, but, as I'm not using one, you get the JB full fat version.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

_For such a bad boy, the Sexta was a real comedian. He was going to ruin Ichigo? That was the emptiest fucking threat he'd ever heard..._

_**. . .**_

It really shouldn't have come as such a surprise to Ichigo when Grimmjow actually had make good on his threat just a few minutes into the third period.

What certainly did come as a genuine surprise to Ichigo though, was that Grimmjow had found away to do it without even lifting a finger. In fact, it was the distinct _lack_ of finger lifting by the bluenet that saw Ichigo in his current predicament.

And it had happened just when Ichigo thought things were finally going right. The near stalemate... the slashes and high sticks, and the dirty hits and breakout fights once known as the Reapers verses Hollows hockey game... had actually become a tie game just two minutes into the third. The Reapers captain, Kensei Muguruma, had managed to tuck the puck into the bottom corner of the net while the Hollows were down two men during a tripping and a high-sticking penalty.

The Reapers and their fans had cheered but it seemed to Ichigo more like desperate encouragement than celebration. And rightly so. Everyone knew it was a truly sad state of affairs when the Reapers had to have a five on three advantage just to get a goal.

It was also unfortunate that Shiro's naturally pale complexion was now marred by an ugly red welt just beneath his left eye. Getting hurt always sucked, but it was part of the game, and the way Ichigo saw it, they were lucky to get the penalty break. And Shiro was lucky to keep his eye.

As Ichigo shuffled down the bench to make space for the incoming players, he craned forward and quickly took in the hard, discouraged expressions that made up the faces of the line of Soul Reapers. The truly depressing part was that Shiro's welt didn't stand out at all amongst the faces of his teammates. It actually fit in quite nicely, rounding out the team's collection of split lips, black eyes, missing teeth, a busted nose, as well as the less visible injuries; a twisted ankle, a painful charlie horse, and a broken pinkie.

Overall, the team looked like it had been mugged.

But booboos aside, the score was now 2-2, and Ichigo figured that if they survived the game long enough, they might even still have a distant chance of winning.

_Winning?_ Ichigo shook his head as he wiggled his helmet firmly into place and stood up from the bench. _Well, what was life without whimsy?_

Ichigo hopped over the boards to start his shift and took up his position on the face-off at centre ice. The arena was bursting with constant cheers and thundering music, but Ichigo wasn't giving all the hullabaloo much attention. None of the players were. They had learned to tune it all out when the puck was dropped.

Instead, the young forward took mental note of which Hollows were on the ice with him. Ichigo was less banged up than some of the other players, and he wanted to it to stay that way. (And he wanted to keep his teeth.) Even with the sexta as his special bodyguard, he still had to keep his head up and be aware of who was near him at all times. The game had its dangers and you had to play with your head, and even if you did, serious injuries could still happen in a split second.

Ichigo risked a hard glance to his right to where Grimmjow was bracing himself, tensed body facing inwards towards Ichigo, stick crossed with his opponent's, waiting for the whistle to start the play. It was clear that the battle for dominance was already in full swing between the sexta and his current opponent, but all Ichigo really saw was the hunger. Though they shouldn't have been, a fierce set of azure eyes were settled on him. A shock of equally brilliant blue hair was slung between them, an unruly piece that had snuck its way out from behind its helmet barrier.

Ichigo felt his composure slip just a little bit. He was getting one hell of a mean look, but it was the blue that sucked him in, like a beacon.

Every fucking thing blue. He was sick of being hated and he was sick of blue. Ichigo had to draw a deep breath to steady his nerves and ignore it, but he did, and he turned back to his opponent who had lined up in front of him on the face-off.

After their awkward conversations during their breaks, Ichigo was already feeling a bit unsettled with the idea of having the large, angry bluenet at his back. But he shrugged off the feeling as best he could and tried to keep his focus. They were still teammates, and at this level of hockey you didn't screw around. In theory anyway.

Besides, Ichigo never considered that Grimmjow might intentionally do something against him on the ice.

He wouldn't. Right? At least not during a game.

He spared another fleeting glance to his right. Yup, that was a menacing look all right, and it hadn't budged from him. The blue-haired headcase was eye stalking him and trying to get under his skin. Well, it wasn't going to work. Ichigo could handle it. He could take anything Grimmjow could throw at him. The real question was, how far would Grimmjow go once they were off the ice?

Ichigo frowned as he cast his eyes downward and focused on the blue line that lay trapped beneath the surface of the ice at his feet. He had to get him out of his head, but there he was. On the ice. Beneath the ice.

He jerked from his dark reverie, and the muddle of thoughts that Grimmjow's glaring had brought on were roughly shoved aside as the linesman in front of Ichigo skated into place, the puck hidden inside his hands at waste level. With a sudden motion, the official threw the small disc down, and the play started. Ichigo jabbed his stick forward and raked the blade across the ice as he tried to scoop the puck up first and win the face-off.

Ichigo was fast, but his opponent, Ulquiorra, was faster. He cursed under his breath as the little black disc slipped out of reach and slid into the hands of the Hollow's. Ichigo instantly jumped into motion. The chase was on and the Reapers were determined to regain control. For the next minute the puck changed hands like a hot potato, leaving both teams spinning as they tried to keep control of the disc long enough to actually do something with it.

Ichigo was almost surprised when the puck somehow found its way to him. He was nearing the end of his shift and quite out of breath, but he wasn't going to waste this opportunity as the play moved into the Hollow's end. The fans hollered their encouragement, and Ichigo poured on the speed and raced forward, aware that his blue-haired partner had just taken out a Hollow player. For a few seconds at least, that was one less enemy to worry about.

Ichigo crossed the blue line as the Hollow's defence pulled back. Grimmjow had already moved into position, flanking Ichigo and keeping the remaining Hollow's off his back. Out of all of his issues with the larger man, Ichigo couldn't really find fault with his ability to cover Ichigo. When things went right, Grimmjow's was as effective as Hollow bug spray.

Now, if Ichigo could just keep himself focused enough to score, things might be alright.

Ichigo's body lowered as he rushed towards the net, legs pumping, eyes focused, stick clapping against the ice as it jumped back and forth over the puck. The black disc seemed to hang off the sharp edge of his blade, carried forward in the rush of momentum that was Kurosaki Ichigo coming in for the kill, every muscle trained and responding to his thoughts with flawless precision. He was in the zone. He was in control. The Hollow defence man in front of Ichigo was pulling back, inadvertently screening his own goalie. As far as scoring opportunities went, this was a beauty. Ichigo could see it in his mind's eye, could read the player, sense his responses. He would fake low and the defence man would drop to screen the puck.

Finally, Ichigo had control of the puck and a clean shot.

For a moment, the old feeling was back, and hockey seemed to hold the promise of being fun again. Even though he was still moving fast, everything slowed. Around him battles were raging. Man on man, fighting for positions. Ichigo had enough space and enough time to wind up for a shot. He was in the clear. Maybe they could win this. He raised his stick to launch the puck at the opening he saw. If he could just get a goal, they could turn this game around. He could grab his career by the horns and turn it back around. Maybe he and Grimmjow could even...

Ichigo only had a split second to brace for the hit.

Even though he had caught the guy in his peripheral, coming in fast from the side, the orangette barely had enough time for a mental, oh shit, before he felt the impact. Bodies and limbs connected like hammer and nail, slamming Ichigo into the boards and twisting him awkwardly at the waste. One moment he thought he'd taken the hit without incident. The next moment, he felt it.

It was a low blow. Literally.

His opponent brought one knee up and jammed it firmly into the tender space between number fifteen's legs. And Ichigo yelped as blinding, crippling pain exploded in his groin. Protective cup be damned.

Wide-eyed and stunned, Ichigo went down along the boards with a desperate wheeze as all of the life was forcefully crushed out of his nuts.

As Ichigo was going down, the crowd leaped to its collective feet, those closest to the glass standing on their toes, pressing forward and straining to see past the barrier and catch a glimpse of their fallen hero. And see him they did. Through the plexiglass that surrounded the rink. On the big screen above the ice. On the smaller screens of bars and homes. Number fifteen was choking in air as he curled up on the ice, gloves tucked between his legs, face scrunched into the picture of agony.

He would have whimpered but he could hardly breath. He could merely gasp and grit his teeth against the pain. Watering eyes were ground shut, while white lights danced behind his lids. The sharp whistle and hollering fans became a distant buzzing, and a familiar voice from somewhere above him seemed concerned, but it was all just background noise. Completely unimportant. The jabbering continued as Ichigo lay there, wishing he'd been born a eunuch.

Nearly a full minute passed, and finally Ichigo made a move to rise. But all he managed to accomplish was to roll onto his front, breathing heavily, belly down, face burrowed between gloved hands, helmet resting on the ice.

He was going to need the whole arena floor to ice his balls anyway, so it seemed like a good place to lie.

"Ichigo. Where does it hurt?" Ichigo shifted his arms as he opened one eye and glared into the face that had appeared right next to his own. Ichigo's apparent demise had brought the team's doctor out onto the ice, and he was now kneeling beside him to check his vitals.

And yes, Ichigo thought they were pretty damn vital.

"Nnngh." All Ichigo could really do was groan. He knew he wasn't giving the doctor much to go on, but it seemed to be enough... that, and the fact that his hands were now gently hugging his pride, testing to see if it was still attached.

"Ah, okay. Can you stand?" Ichigo felt a hand slip beneath his arm, where it rested without tugging.

"Mmh." Ichigo blew out a breath and pushed himself onto all fours, though he was still more doubled over than anything, arms bent at the elbows, weight resting on fisted gloves, helmet kissing the ice.

"Alright then," the doctor nudged. "Let's just walk it off, okay?"

"Nnhh. Yeah." Ichigo gathered up one knee and pushed himself up with his stick, the doctor still supporting him by his arm. The slender piece of wood vibrated in his hands as he leaned his weight onto it.

"You good?"

"Yeah," he whispered.

No. No, he wasn't. Things were throbbing in a way they really shouldn't be. But he couldn't just hang around there all day feeling sorry for himself. He had to get up and keep going.

The crowed clapped in unison as Ichigo peeled himself from the ice with visible difficulty and skated gingerly to the bench, guided by the doctor's hand which was still on his back in case anything should happen, though in a case like this, it was more for moral support than anything. Every man in the stadium who'd been paying any kind of attention would have understood that need, and would have naturally winced in sympathy.

Well, almost every man.

Ichigo reached the bench, head still hanging down. Two players patted his back as they shifted over to let him limp into his place in the lineup. The door had been opened for him because there was no frigging way he was raising a leg to climb over the wall. He managed to raise his eyes though, and he let them scan the bench before he turned to sit down.

Ichigo dropped his head again and cursed quietly as he eased himself down onto the incredibly hard wooden seat.

That sonofabitch.

His lineup partner, the infamously useless number six, was sitting carefree two spaces over.

It came as both a blessing and a curse that one unfortunate player was stuck between them while they took their break, both still huffing for air.

When Ichigo got his faculties back in working order, he might have a word or two to say to number six. He was pretty damn sure that Grimmjow saw that hit coming and did nothing to intervene. He'd had every chance to stop it, but he'd totally thrown Ichigo to the wolves. Despite their differences, Ichigo had put his trust in the enforcer and now Grimmjow had purposely betrayed that trust.

Ichigo lifted most his weight with one arm as he adjusted himself on the bench, trying to take the pressure off and lessen the ache in his groin. He winced, though only some of the orangette's expression was from the discomfort.

In some ways, this was his own fault. Without realizing it, he'd become accustomed to having a personal body guard, and lately he'd found himself relying on the foul mouthed attack dog to defend him... trusting that he'd at least do his job. But fuck that. Ichigo wasn't defenceless, and he was really tired of playing damsel-in-distress in this fucked up play. It wasn't how he'd played hockey in the minors and it clearly wasn't helping him in any way. Maybe that was the whole problem. The more distance he could put between himself and the insane enforcer, the better off he'd be.

Ichigo's lips pursed as he came to a decision, one he should have made awhile ago. It was time to take back the ice, on Ichigo's terms. He didn't care what Grimmjow did with himself out there, as long as he stayed outta Ichigo's way.

Number fifteen flinched as a hand landed on his shoulder and he came back to earth. He grunted a thank you and reached for the water bottle and towel that was handed to him. Though he took a sip, he didn't really feel like water at the moment. He was rather busy trying to swallow the puking feeling that came with having one's balls broken. He gasped as he shifted, trying to find a position that didn't press so hard on his tender bits. God, was he bleeding?

"Y'alright Kurosaki?" The coach's booming voice breached the noise of the crowd easily as the game resumed and the fans cheered. Ichigo didn't even spare him a look back.

"Yeah. M'fine coach." He'd be more fine if he'd heard a penalty being called, but what else was new tonight? There was no call except from the faithful in the stands. They had booed and jeered their displeasure with passion. It made no difference in the end, but it was nice to know that at least their fans hadn't abandoned them during their slump. Hockey fans could be a fickle bunch sometimes.

"Alright. Good then. You're back on in two minutes."

Make it four, Ichigo thought to himself as he rested his head on his gloves and tried to clear his head of the pain. He heard a whistle blow, indicating an infraction, bringing the play to a momentary stop. But he only looked back up when he felt the intense sensation of eyes watching him. In a building filled to the rafters with fans and cameras, that would be expected, but somehow this felt different. It didn't take long to pinpoint the source of the hair-raising feeling on the back of his neck.

Szayel Aporro Granz was still out on the ice. The Hollow's number eight was tossing a long, smug look in Ichigo's direction while he slowed to a stop near the Reaper's bench. The pink-haired creep was taunting him. Ichigo's face set itself into a dark scowl, but his attention immediately flew to his so called back-up. The seconds of their short break were gradually ticking down, and Grimmjow was watching the pink-haired player from the bench. Ichigo recognized that look. The sexta was going to hand out some retribution for the dirty hit on Ichigo as soon as the penalty was over.

As if Ichigo wasn't already upset enough at the general state of things, the idea that Grimmjow would even bother to go after Szayel when he couldn't be bothered to stop the hit in the first place pissed Ichigo off even further.

Ichigo twisted to his right and caught Grimmjow's attention with a sharp, "Hey!"

"Back off, Grimmjow," he growled. "He's mine."

Almost as if he were expecting it, Grimmjow turned his hate filled scowl directly onto the orangette, locking eyes with the pale player and somehow managing to dismiss Ichigo with an arrogant nod and a bullish snort. Ichigo felt himself tense. It was like Grimmjow had flipped him the bird with his chin.

"You just do the job that yer supposed to be so fucking good at, pretty boy, and let me do mine," the bluenet growled back, leaning towards Ichigo. He punctuated the command with a malicious sneer, cobalt blue sparkling with disdain.

Ichigo's eyes widened and his pulse quickened. If he'd been cranky a moment ago, he was positively furious now. It didn't take a genius to see that the bluenet was wolfishly pleased with himself for his sneaky, backhanded manoeuvre. Ichigo snapped like a cheap rubber band, lurching across in front of their hapless teammate, who was by now leaning back as far as he could to escape being squeezed flat between the bickering duo.

"Let you do yours?!" he screeched. "If you were doing _yours_, maybe I woulda got that shot off instead of getting bagged in the first place, asshole."

Grimmjow's head fell sideways, and though a cocky grin seemed like it would follow, his face remained serious as he twisted around and patted the thick material of his own thigh.

"You do look kinda sore there... partner. You wanna sit on my lap?" Grimmjow waited for the inevitable reaction, a beautiful scarlet blush, a face full of shocked disgust, a blow-up, but...

Nothing.

He was met, instead, with the exact same '_giving you shit and not taking it_' look that had been stuck there since Ichigo's mouth had started moving. And now he imagined he could feel his own cheeks warming, not with embarrassment, but with rising irritation as Ichigo merely leaned in further and hissed like a viper.

"I know you did that on purpose."

Grimmjow pulled back.

"Keh. Whatever Kurosaki." He rolled his eyes, looking intentionally bored with the other man's whining. "The whole world's out ta get you."

The bluenet turned away from the fuming player. Grimmjow had been feeling rather smug and content for the past few minutes but he was quickly growing annoyed by the bothersome red head. He was also aware that the guys next to him were listening. And Ichigo was starting to make him look bad, as usual. Now that Ichigo was in his face again, he was sorry he didn't get to be the one to knee the little fucker in the balls himself.

Ichigo would look real good down on his knees and whimpering in front of Grimmjow. Real good.

In fact, while he was down there he could...

"Not the whole world, Grimmjow. Just you." Ichigo's voice was lowered, keeping his last sentiments between the two of them and their poor trapped teammate as best he could.

Grimmjow turned back towards the annoyance, about to tell him to get over it and shut the hell up, but instead found himself unable to speak. It was like he had turned a sharp corner and run right into a hundred foot cliff face. He was pinned by brown eyes, suddenly hard like aged rock, immovable. And they grabbed Grimmjow's complete attention, dominating him.

"I don't care what the coach says," Ichigo hissed. "You can keep your fucking charity to yourself."

"Hn."

"I mean it, Grimmjow," he continued in a hoarse whisper. "Stay the hell outta my way from now on. We're done."

"Che."

Other than a derisive snort and jaded sneer, Grimmjow didn't really have a good defence for his fire-haired teammate's earlier accusation. He _had_ let Ichigo get hit on purpose. Yeah, he could have easily intercepted the pink haired Hollow, but Ichigo had it coming. He didn't appreciate Grimmjow enough, or at all. In fact, it was probably fair to say he hated him. Either way, the kid deserved it.

Plus it had been fucking hilarious. Grimmjow may have looked serious on the outside, but the moment he'd seen Ichigo crumple and grab his nuts, he'd nearly become an unbalanced mess of insane cackling on the inside. Christ, he could just picture the kid with a bag of ice on his balls tonight. And he sure as hell wasn't gonna be getting laid any time soon.

Yup, he'd had a sweet little moment of revenge, and he'd been all prepared to play the part and at least look like he wanted to step up in Ichigo's defence. Not that he minded blowing off some steam on the pink-haired Hollow, but he would definitely not be doing it on Ichigo's behalf.

And not that it mattered now, because Ichigo had saved him from feeling obligated and had let him off the hook. He'd said it plain as day.

_We're done._

It was only then that Ichigo's statement began to sink in, he'd been so engrossed with the rest of it. Grimmjow covertly slid narrowed blue eyes back towards his bitter teammate as he felt his hackles begin to rise anew. Who the hell was Ichigo to say when they were done?

Maybe Grimmjow didn't _wanna_ be done.

Grimmjow rubbed an arm across his midsection. Maybe that sudden queasiness in his gut was just bubbling anger because Ichigo was throwing around orders again. The bluenet simmered on the bench for a moment, thoughts being pulled more and more away from the game as the words turned over and over in his mind.

_We're done._

He couldn't just let that go, and after a moment of contemplation, Grimmjow open his mouth to tell Ichigo how things were gonna be. But before he could challenge the other man's decree, the coach's voice snapped like a whip behind him. Reflex took over, and their lineup was once again scaling the front of the bench and charging back onto the ice.

As the game dragged on, Ichigo was getting more and more agitated. He hadn't had a single good opportunity to get his retribution on the man who had physically kneed him in the nuts. Nor had he touched the puck since. As a result, his frustrations were spilling over and he found himself barking at Grimmjow at every turn. Despite skewering him with his eyes, Grimmjow remained oddly silent, choosing to ignore Ichigo's derisive comment about his playing style and his remark about playing real hockey instead of acting like a brainless thug. That was their only interaction for the remainder of the game.

No longer protected, Ichigo had absorbed several hard hits and was sure to be well painted the next day. But the Hollow's weren't on top of him like he thought they'd be without his enforcer watching over him. Which was odd. Because he had sort of expected the sexta to ease off a little, show his displeasure by sulking and hanging back, maybe even cruise through the rest of the game without wreaking quite as much havoc on the opposing team. It would show the Reapers and Ichigo that Grimmjow's presence was important.

But that was most definitely not the course of action the enforcer had chosen. If anything, he'd stepped it up.

In fact, Grimmjow was acting like a Hollow minesweeper. The sexta was sounding off like an angry badger on every bad call, while aggressively pursuing the officials, the puck, and every opposing player, on the ice and off. He was practically frothing at the mouth.

It was a very strange feeling, and it was rather unnerving to the orangette, because it had nothing to do with Ichigo's defence. And yet, it had everything to do with Ichigo.

Only a few minutes were left in the game when the whistles shrilled as Grimmjow's temper finally erupted. One moment, he was battling Ulquiorra in the corner for the puck, the next, he had the Hollow's number four pinned to the ice and his white knuckled fist was was repeatedly driving into his face. Just before he'd hit the ice, Ulquiorra, bless his soul, had manage to land three sharp jabs into Grimmjow's shoulder and jaw, but the bigger man didn't even seem to notice.

The crowd of course, loved it. Bunch of animals.

Ichigo, on the other hand, had stood back and watched with a growing sense of dismay. He was pretty sure he knew exactly who Grimmjow was really seeing during the one sided fight, where he'd gotten the fuel for his fire. And even through his own fearless anger, the sight still left Ichigo feeling a bit cold and queasy, like his muscles had wrapped themselves tighter around his bones for warmth and his stomach had sunk into his feet. The attack was about rage, not revenge, and Ichigo had had no small part in its birth. He'd been egging the enforcer on as much as possible since the "incident".

Ichigo had seen the way Grimmjow had attacked Ulquiorra like a savage animal. The way he'd just fucking sprung on the guy. Ulquiorra had been hacking at the sexta through most of the third like a hungry beaver on a birch tree, but still, even though Ichigo could understand the fight breaking out, once number four had gone down, and Ulquiorra had covered his face, most players would have backed off.

It was over before it started but Grimmjow didn't let up. It took an official and two Hollow players to pull him off of the downed player, and when they did the wild-eyed enforcer was chirping at _them_ to go too.

Grimmjow was just lucky that Nnoitra Jiruga and Yammy Llargo weren't on the roster that night or he'd have found himself in a hell of a mess real quick. Even Grimmjow's excessively violent temper was no match the two monstrous men, and like the sexta, they had no qualms about laying down the law in defence of their teammates, even if it _was_ just Ulquiorra.

The pale brunette could be a bit of a prick but the guy didn't deserve the beating he got, or the concussion. Ichigo kind of thought he shouldn't have been feeling sorry for him for hounding the bluenet as he did. Grimmjow's building aggression was plain as day for anyone with half a brain to see, and Ulquiorra had to have realized that he was messing with a stick of dynamite.

Even so, he was a stick of dynamite that Ichigo had lit... that should have gone off in Ichigo's hand.

He watched as two referees manhandled the raging bluenet out of the rink. Even as stepped off the ice, the forward was still arguing the five minute major penalty call with the officials. But they weren't going to budge. And they shouldn't. Grimmjow needed to calm the hell down before he hurt anybody else.

As Ichigo returned to the bench once again, he remembered his earlier promise to himself, to just be himself and play the game. If Grimmjow had a problem with him, it would be solely on Grimmjow. Well he'd kept it for the most part, hadn't he?

He looked up to the big screen above the ice which was replaying the explosion, revealing the violence that Ichigo had probably fuelled.

No. He was not going to feel responsible for Grimmjow's dirty outburst. He wasn't the one who had started shit in the hallway. He wasn't the one who had eighty-sixed his own teammate.

Ichigo was being the bigger man here.

Ichigo's shoulders slumped forward, and he rested his helmet against the long shaft of his stick.

Except that he wasn't.

It was almost impossible for Ichigo to just carry on and not purposely nettle Grimmjow. No matter how hard he tried to control himself, the man provoked a reaction from Ichigo in some way. Twice he'd come up to Ichigo and gotten in his face. And when he didn't like the reaction he got, when that wasn't enough, Grimmjow, the dirty sneak, had stabbed him in the back.

And that offer to sit on Grimmjow's lap? He'd instantly gone hog wild inside. His stomach had flipped, his heart had done some weird skittering shit, and he'd had to fight tooth and nail to maintain his composure. He could feel the blood rising up his neck again as he thought about it.

He couldn't just let that go.

And to think, they were going to get to do it all over again tomorrow night.

Delightful.

**X X X**

Kensei stood in front of a small handful of players outside of the arena, a few of them leaning against the back of Kensei's palladium silver SUV beneath the softly buzzing light post. Snowflakes glittered like diamonds as they passed through the light and drifted down in silence. Even though they'd won the game against their arch rivals, the mood was somber, the men caught up in a serious discussion.

"Oh, believe me. I've tried talking ta him, and I honestly can't figure out what all the friction's about. Ichigo just keeps babblin' that he can't play with Grimmjow._ Jaegerjaquez won't cooperate. Jaegerjaquez gets in the way. Jaegerjaquez is too aggressive. Jaegerjaquez._..."

"Okay, Shinji," Renji interrupted. "I think we get it."

Shinji glared, pulled a face, and continued on regardless.

"..._Jaegerjaquez can't shoot... Jaegerjaquez's a mental case... _ He just went on and on and..."

"I've talked to Grimmjow about his issues with Kurosaki several times as well," Kensei cut in, face serious. "And I couldn't get anywhere with him either. He says the issue is Kurosaki, not him." The remark set off a round of muttering sighs. "Normally I can get through to him, but he won't back down on this one. He's being a stubborn ass."

"...ya know, I still have the headache," Shinji finally finished as he rubbed his temples, even though everyone was ignoring him in favour of Kensei.

"I've tried to get through to the coach about splitting those two idiots apart, but he wont budge," the white-haired man continued. "He's says Ichigo's not getting pushed around as much with Grimmjow out there, and as far as he's concerned that's half the battle won."

"Well, I think that's great, Ichi not getting creamed all the time," Shinji offered, all eyes falling on him once again. "But is that really fixing the problem?"

"Yeah, he still ain't scoring like he was before," Shiro added, voice slightly muffled from having his chin tucked far down into the neck of his jacket in the minus twelve degree weather. His face had already seen enough beatings tonight.

"Well, the coach seems convinced the kid'll snap out of it and magically start scoring again," Kensei replied.

"Sounds like wishful thinking to me," Renji stated flatly, arms crossed and lips pulled into a tight frown.

"And if he doesn't?" Shinji asked. All eyes returned to the team's captain.

Kensei sighed and shifted his weight off of one leg to the both of them, arms folded in a solid barricade across his broad chest.

"This is a team effort. We can't afford to put all the weight on one man's shoulders." Kensei shrugged and shook his head, for once at a loss for real answers. "We'll just have to pull up our straps and play better."

The other men nodded. They were empty words at the heart of it, but nobody blamed Kensei for not having all the answers. They'd tried to talk to the two feuding players, and short of a full on intervention, what else could they do? It was up to the coach to sort out their team's problems after all.


	9. Chapter 9

**So. Finally managed to get something finished. I had to split this chapter into two. More because I really wanted to get something posted. But I think it will still flow nicely this way. I'm on top of the next part. I'm excited about it, and plan to have it out asap. I really do hate keeping you waiting. In the meantime, I've been picking at this almost every night for a very long time, so dear god, I hope it's enjoyable. =.=**

**Junichiblue**

* * *

**CHAPTER NINE**

Shinji Hirako was actually beginning to look around for a bullhorn.

It felt like he needed one to grab his teammates' attention.

Ichigo couldn't seem to keep his eyes off the man he'd been playing with and battling with for weeks on end. Said man was looking bored as shit and leaning against the wall in a casual slouch amongst a group of players some thirty feet away.

It was part of the Soul Reapers' pregame routine, a small social gathering held at the crossroads where four wide hallways connected not far from the dressing room. For an hour or so, most of the players would congregate there. Someone would produce a hacky sack or soccer ball, and a game of "don't let the ball hit the ground" would follow. It was a low stress way to warm up and loosen stiff muscles.

Not everyone participated. Renji for one, had his own routine. A tennis ball and a wall to bounce if off were all he needed. It was a reflex game. A way for the goalie to get in the zone.

Here at the crossroads, the coach was noticeably absent. This time belonged to the players. And they used it as they saw fit. A few of the men, like Byakuya Kuchiki, were serious as a heart attack, while others, like Shinji Hirako, were always light and loose. Much like in the locker room, intimate details of sexual adventures would be matters of casual conversation. It all helped to bring the group together and calm the nerves. After that, every ounce of focus was on the game.

Being one of the first to arrive at the arena, Ichigo had taken his sweet time dropping off his hockey bag and setting out his skates before wandering down the hallway to join in on the ritual. The hall was already filled with players by the time he got there, their gear lined up along a wall out of the way. After finally winning a game, most of them were eager to warm up, and several balls were already in play.

After his winning goal last night, Ichigo would have thought he'd be psyched to play again as well, but he was far from it. All he felt was the pressure to perform and the sting of knowing he wasn't. And the constant murmur nagging him from the back of his mind was driving him crazy. His subconscious was trying to tell him something; an answer to his hockey woes perhaps? That would be great. But the feeling was just an infuriating taunt, like a voice muffled by a thick wall, screaming a message at him that he couldn't seem to hear.

If he spent less time trying to tune it out, and more time just focusing on his game, maybe he'd get somewhere.

Ichigo's somber gaze swept across the loose gathering of twenty some men. He sighed when a head of blond hair broke free from a small group and came bounding towards him with far too much energy.

"Yo, Ichi! My man! Ya ready for another big win?" Shinji strode towards him with a wide, long-toothed smile.

Ichigo gave a small upward nod in greeting, but he didn't return the smile the blond was giving him. His eyes were already fixed on another shade of hair, one so unnatural, yet so stunning that it seemed hell bent on pulling his attention away from everything else.

Shinji eyed his sour-faced teammate critically as he bumped Ichigo on the shoulder with his fist.

"Getcher game face on, Ichi. It'll be easy pickin's tonight!"

Ichigo flinched as if he'd been nudged out of a daydream.

"What?"

The blank look he received didn't phase the wiry blond. Shinji could see that Ichigo was on another planet the minute he appeared, and he was determined to snap the star player out of his funk and get him in the right mindset for the game. Ichigo needed to grab onto last night's goal and use it to regain his momentum. A pep talk from Shinji could be just what Ichigo needed.

"Them Ryoka pussies think they're gonna beat us just 'cause we were in a little slump. But we're back and we're gonna show'em up, right Ichi?"

"Sure we will," Ichigo muttered, attention drifting back to wherever it had wandered.

Shinji gave him a sceptical look but said nothing. Maybe pep talks weren't the way to go. Perhaps he should just regale Ichigo with tails of his latest conquest. With that, Shinji launched into a detailed description of the girl he'd spent the night with. Sex was always easiest to come by when you were a winner.

**X X X**

Grimmjow pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers and squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck, he was tired. His whole pregame routine had been shot to shit after his bout of insomnia from last night's game. And he'd slept in much later than he usually would have on game day. He was sore from last night's screw-up of a game, a bruised shoulder and sore knuckles reminding him of the hurt he'd inflicted on himself in the line of duty. He could deal with the aches. But now he was also tired as hell, and completely unfocused. The only thing he'd managed to do right was to eat his usual pregame dinner of baked chicken and pasta, and show up on fucking time.

Now he wished he hadn't.

Renji and Shiro were yapping at him about some fucking thing or other to do with an exclusive party they'd been invited to after the game... with hot tubs and free booze... and did he wanna go and...

No, he didn't wanna fucking go.

They only wanted him around for their sake anyway, because with him around, they were sure to meet almost every available woman at the party. Grimmjow thumbed one of the pockets of his dark blue track pants and let himself fall back against the wall, no longer really listening to the witless banter around him. They seemed to think pussy was magnetically attracted to him. He let out a quiet snort. Well, alright. Maybe it was. Dick too, come to think of it. He'd always kept it on the down-low, but he'd been approached by males before, more times than he could count on one hand, in fact.

Naturally, he'd turned them down in a tone that brooked no argument. He wasn't cruel about it, though. Just clear. Despite his reputation for being cold and unforgiving, Grimmjow couldn't bring himself to begrudge someone just because they were physically attracted to him. You couldn't help who you liked. Hell, it was a compliment after all, wasn't it?

And none of the guys who had tried to pick him up had been aggressive or demanding, or even overtly homosexual. In fact, Grimmjow had found the attention kind of refreshing. They hadn't stared at him like he was on some other level. They hadn't played shy, or tipped their heads and giggled, or even turned around and given him attitude when he said he already had plans for the night. Christ, even when he was honest about it, the women still gave him a hard time. Women were so often unpredictable, but the guys had seemed pretty together. He didn't have any gay friends, that he knew of, but he'd actually been a bit surprised when he realized that he'd been engaged in normal guy conversation with guys that would have been just as happy to have him bent over top of them, buck ass naked, and shooting his load inside them. And once the horny cats were out of the bag, and Grimmjow had let his own sexual preferences be known, he'd actually been cool enough with the situation to continue to hang with a couple of the guys for the night instead of bailing.

The whole concept made him curious. Why would a guy wanna be with another guy? It was something the guys on the team joked about all the time. Hell, most of the pranks they played on each other had major homoerotic overtones. But still, being gay wasn't a subject they ever discussed. This was hockey. If any of the players were gay, they kept it a tight secret. He guessed that most of the guys on this team would probably be okay with something like that, even with all the in-your-face nudity that came with the territory. Hell, Grimmjow didn't give two shits. They could even stare if they wanted. The average hockey fan, though, might distance themselves. With their careers and the thing they loved most at stake, most guys wouldn't want to risk the exposure.

Yes, the concept had gotten Grimmjow thinking, especially when the two guys he'd hung out with on one particular occasion quietly left together. They'd invited him to join them before they left. He'd brushed them off, but he'd surprised himself when he'd opened his mouth and wished them a _good fuckin' time_. He'd been joking to hide his discomfort, of course. It was just too much information. But once home, in the quiet safety of his apartment, he had allowed himself to wonder just what it would be like to be with another man.

What the hell would he do without breasts to grab? He'd miss 'em, naturally. But when he really thought about it, tits were more of an accessory than a necessity He didn't need them to get off. The attention his dick got was what mattered. And who knew better what a dick liked than another guy?

The bluenet frowned. There was that. He supposed he'd be fine without pussy. Frankly, he had an undeniable fondness for ass anyway.

Grimmjow gave himself a stern mental shake as his two teammates continued to rattle on about breasts and hips and holes. Christ, here he was being invited to a party where he was sure to get laid and he was thinkin' about dick.

He was so tired, he was delirious.

Grimmjow tilted his head forward, and rattled blue eyes dropped out of sight. He glowered with fervour at the tips of his sneakers as he continued to hold up the wall with his back. Maybe there were answers hidden in the patterns of his shoes. It all seemed suddenly too fuckin' complicated. Screw dick and screw pussy.

What Grimmjow wanted was to put his shifts in, go back home, shut his phone off, and crawl into bed. Alone.

Last night wasn't the first night he'd spent alone in recent weeks. While it was a virtual guarantee that he would always wake up with morning wood, and his libido would rouse with his temper, he hadn't actually been into getting laid as much lately. Very few of the girls he'd met had caught his eye. Those that had, he'd taken up on their offer, but he'd actually stooped so low as to feign ill a couple of times before things could get too heated. He was disgusted with himself in a way. He wasn't one for lying. And he certainly wasn't one for turning down sex.

Beating off was once a last desperate measure that Grimmjow only indulged in on occasion if the women weren't doing it for him. But it had become something of a routine these past few weeks. Even then, it didn't always work. After last night's failure to launch, he was wound tight and ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

And wouldn't ya know, there he was.

Grimmjow didn't need to turn around to know who it was that now stood in the same long hallway as him, thankfully on the other side of the crossroads. He was certain he could smell the scent of his shampoo from here. But it was Ichigo's grumbling tenor that sliced through the voices of several small groups of men which sent a shiver of anger through Grimmjow's stomach.

What did that little shit have a right to be in such a pissy mood about anyway? He was everybody's little hero again, wasn't he?

"Hello, Grim."

Grimmjow's head whipped around at the familiar husky voice, thoughts of Ichigo washing away like so much filth. He was suddenly feeling a little more awake and slightly less grumpy than he was seconds ago. The buttery smooth, seductive voice awakened tactile memories of hard bodies rocking together in the late night hours with fluid motions, hot, damp skin slapping against his own, slick tight heat squeezing his dick into submission. Memories swirled down into the core of his abdomen as the vivid sensations resurfaced. The instant arousal was almost welcome as his insides prickled with warmth and parts of his outsides began to perk up. Now he had a place to pour the restless need that had been simmering in his gut since last night.

He supposed bed could wait if he could crawl into _that_ instead. He watched the woman approach, and his throat vibrated with a low hum of approval.

Pussy was back on the menu.

She was the niece of one of the higher ups. Normally, that relationship might have put off a hockey player, but no one interfered with her business. Yoruichi Shihouin was lustful and independent, and she embodied both of the words with ease as she strolled towards the bluenet, her tight black pants and low cut fitted top leaving little to any man's imagination. And even less to their self control.

The woman was all kinds of hot, with gravity defying breasts and a petite, tight, firm ass. One that Grimmjow was very familiar with. And best of all, after several very strenuous nights with the nubile young woman, Grimmjow knew she was quite happy to oblige him and satisfy his particular sexual fetishes.

She was just what he needed tonight. Something to look forward to.

Yoruichi was dark, silky soft, confident and predatory, but a wanton whore beneath the sheets when she was with him. He felt a hungry grin slide into place as the young woman approached him.

"Heya sexy," he greeted, darkened blue eyes raking up and down her lean, fit body.

Though she approached him with all the confidence of a huntress, he caught a flicker of hesitation in her eyes as she neared. Perhaps she was remembering their last encounter as well. She was aggressive and demanding, a tigress in bed, but...

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards.

...she was not the predator he was.

Grimmjow was a little surprised that she was talking to him to be honest. Their last session together had ended on a sour note. It was last season, just after Christmas. He'd taken her up to his apartment and he'd taken to fucking her on every available surface. The sex had been good; sweaty, aggressive, explosive. Afterwards though, she'd suggested that he'd been much too rough and that perhaps he should find some other outlet for his personal problems. He knew exactly what she'd been talking about, and he'd snapped at her. He never apologized for it either, a fact that had turned their parting into a short but bitter argument.

What had pissed him off the most at the time, wasn't her prying. It wasn't even that she gave a shit about something he didn't need any help with, or that she wanted him to talk about it. It was that she started fucking pushing him to face issues that were far to raw and that he had no interest in discussing. That, and she had confused the boundaries of their relationship. She was a hot as hell fuck, not his girlfriend, or his best friend. They went out for dinner, then they fucked. That was the understanding. They didn't talk about his _personal problems._

But that was eleven months ago. Apparently, she had gotten over it. Which was good. She looked as amazing as ever. Maybe they could take up where they left off.

"You miss me?" he rumbled, leaning forward just enough that she had to rise onto her toes to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

"Of course, Grim," she breathed as she pulled back, olive eyes lit with her usual coy smile. Grimmjow raised an eyebrow.

"Ain't seen you around here for awhile. Where you been hidin'?" he asked, smirk fixed as firmly in place as her own.

"Oh, I'm always around, Grim."

"And you can't say hi?"

"I _am_ saying, hi," she admonished, waiting as Grimmjow's gaze suddenly snapped down the hall. Concern crossed her pretty features. He must have heard something _interesting,_ because his azure eyes were narrowed and bright with an anger she remembered well.

"I just wanted to wish you good luck in your game tonight," she continued, pressing her palm against the centre of his chest to regain his attention before pulling it away to hang loose at her side.

"That all?" Grimmjow's head tilted to the side as he came back to her. He wasn't convinced yet. She was here, so she had to want something.

"Were you expecting more?" She was still smiling but her eyes were less playful now.

Grimmjow's mouth twitched. She knew what he wanted. And she knew he didn't like games. But one minute with her and he was already playing them, trying to keep his cool while she toyed with him.

"Thought maybe you'd wanna catch up... after..." he replied, voice carrying a little more snap to it than he'd meant it to. His sour mood was returning.

He didn't pay for it, and he didn't beg for it.

He wasn't a fucking neanderthal.

"Perhaps another time, Grim." Yoruichi reached up and squeezed his bicep, her small hand barely covering the peak of the tense bulge. "I already have plans tonight."

Grimmjow's smile was long gone. He knew what that meant. If she was down here, hanging around the team, she had plans to hook up with one of the boys. He didn't care how many people she slept with. He wasn't a hypocrite. But being replaced by one of his teammates felt too close to sharing for his liking. Besides, from what he'd seen and heard in the locker room and on the road, not one of them could replace Grimmjow. He watched her long ponytail, full of purple hair, swing and sway as Yoruichi strode through the players at the centre of the crossroads, disrupting their game of ball to greet the men. None of them seemed to mind.

"Hn."

**X X X**

"Damn damn damn. Would you... I mean... God, I wanna get with her."

"Shut up and just go talk to her then."

"Just go talk?... Just...? You know who that _is_, Ichi?" It was a rhetorical statement on Shinji's part. As far as he knew, Ichigo hadn't met the bronze- skinned goddess.

Ichigo's gaze swung down the hall, and his eyes narrowed as he studied the feline woman who was eyeing Grimmjow up like he was her next meal. Not that Grimmjow seemed to mind one bit.

Ichigo shuddered as auditory memories of his hotel stays from their away games decided to playback the highlights of a certain person's sexual conquests in full surround sound.

The bluenet wasn't known for shying away from the attentions of the opposite sex. Neither were the other players of course, but that didn't concern Ichigo. What did concern him were the times he'd had to stay in the room next to Grimmjow while they were on the road and listen to the incessant thumping and high pitch cries and low grunts that seemed to go on far longer and far louder than sex should. At least Ichigo didn't actually have to room with Grimmjow. That would have been a nightmare. Shiro didn't seem to mind, though... the perve. And Renji and Shinji usually just left to find their own girlfriends for the night. But even when some delusional woman was howling Grimmjow's name at half past midnight, Ichigo staunchly refused to be chased out of his room.

And that one time, when Ichigo had held an ear to the wall, it had been purely out of concern for the life of the young lady who sounded like she was being tortured.

One absent-minded hand rubbed across his abs as Ichigo stared at the scene that was playing out in front of him. Two people hooking up for a night of loud, obnoxious sex. The thought of Grimmjow enjoying himself, carefree and satisfied... It was disgusting. And it made his stomach hurt. To Ichigo, Grimmjow was a cold, angry bastard. But to other people, women people specifically, the man was charm itself.

"Must be one of the girls he's been rubbing up against," Ichigo snorted.

"Ichi." Shinji gasped, a grin nearly splitting his face in two and eyebrows lifting with amusement as he leaned right into Ichigo's face. "_You_ sound like a jealous groupie."

"What?" Ichigo's apricot brows shot up before swan diving back down into an angry V as he turned on his team mate.

"Who are you calling a groupie, stupid?"

Shinji continued to beam, even as Ichigo shoved his blond teammate in the arm. Ichigo wanted to know where the hell Shinji would come up with an idea like that. But to ask was to invite an answer, and it would stir up a subject that brought him anxiety. So he settled for crossing his arms in defence.

"If I _was_ some groupie, I certainly wouldn't wanna be with a neanderthal like that anyway," he blurted.

The conversation that had been taking place down the corridor hit a sudden lull, and Ichigo looked up in time to see malevolent blue eyes set on him like he was centred inside a sniper's scope. He winced.

He'd actually _heard_ that?

God, that was irritating. Grimmjow almost never missed anything, even when people were whispering across a room. Ichigo swore his hearing was so sharp, he could hear a mouse fart in a thunderstorm.

And wasn't this just god damn perfect? He'd been in the building for all of ten minutes and already the buffoon was looking for a reason to start something. Grimmjow was giving him a very meaningful look, one that made it clear that Ichigo's remark was not going to slide. Ichigo broke away from the irritated glare and sent Shinji an annoyed look of his own.

"I'm gonna go warm up somewhere else," he muttered.

"No way, Ichi, I need ya to attract some chicks," Shinji stated, nodding towards the group of girls huddled at the end of the hall. They had shown up long before their scheduled shifts in the concession stands, and had snuck down to the crossroads in hopes of catching the attention of their favourite players. The orangette barely spared them a glance. Sharp eyes were watching Ichigo closely for a reaction now. This was interesting.

"Attract them yourself," he grumbled, "You're not using me to get girls."

"Aw, common Chigo. Don't be like that." The blond huffed, the remorseful shake of his head finally drawing a fragment of his friend's attention. "It's got to be a crime or something."

"What does?" Ichigo asked, puzzled. "And don't call me Chigo."

"You've got... _IT_. And you let it go to waste." The wide eyed expression of horror on Shinji's face was equally matched by Ichigo's as it darkened with irritated confusion.

"Huh?"

"Women seem to think you're a catch. A hottie. Something they'd like to take home and unwrap. Catch my drift? You could totally get your game on, and yet..." Shinji shrugged in defeat. "...you do nothing about it."

"What are you talking about?" Ichigo asked, still more than a little distracted by the presence down the hall.

Shinji folded his arms.

"Chicks throw themselves at you, and you go just ignorin' 'em all the time."

"They do not. Don't say stuff that's not true," Ichigo argued, attention finally centred on Shinji, nostrils flaring in tandem with his eyes. "And I don't ignore them."

"What about when we took you to that new bar a few weeks ago?" the blond man countered, eyes flashing with triumph at Ichigo's pitiful defence.

"You have attention deficit, Shinji. I talk to women all the time." Without looking, Ichigo turned and caught the stray ball that had rolled their way with the ball of his foot, and hooked it up onto his knee with his toes.

"Yes, you do," Shinji deadpanned, less impressed with Ichigo's reflexes that he was with his avoidance techniques. "You say, hi. And then you sign their jerseys instead of signing their breasts. Not very exciting, Ichigo."

"I have two sisters, Shinji." The ball continued to jump from one knee to the other. "I respect women."

"I have a sister too, Chigo," Shinji shot back. "And I don't respect her either."

Brown eyes creased but stayed focused on the ball.

"That's disgusting."

Shinji's tongue lolled from his mouth as he gagged aloud.

"Sick Ichigo! Not what I meant, 'n you know it."

"Uhuh."

"So, do you remember the girls at the bar or not?"

The ball took a sloppy bounce off the corner of Ichigo's knee and rolled back down the corridor." Shinji grinned when he heard Ichigo sigh.

"Which bar?"

"The new one," the blond prodded. It felt like Ichigo was being evasive, and Shinji wanted to know why.

"Which new one?"

"Division."

"Shinji," the orangette began, eyes following the ball back in play down the hall, exasperation hidden beneath his bored tone. "You've dragged me to more bars in the past few weeks than I've been in since I was of age."

"You. Me. Renji." the blond droned back. "At Division. Three weeks ago. The bar with the insanely hot girls who came and sat with us, bought us a round and gave us their phone numbers... right before you bailed."

When there was no intelligent response, Shinji pulled a stupid face at his scowling counterpart.

"Earth to Ichigoooo. Those chicks that came and talked to us for twenty minutes? They were all about you! Shit, if you'd snapped yer fingers they would've dropped to their knees right there!" There. If Ichigo didn't remember now, Shinji would give up hockey forever.

Ichigo stared back, expression still irritated but mind obviously blank. Okay, forget his earlier promise. Shinji prompted further, convinced his stubborn, orange-haired friend was just feigning brain death.

"The brunette and the dirty blond?" he hinted as he waggled his eyes. "And I do mean dirty." The description produced no reaction from his teammate, but Shinji was determined to get one. Some sign of life. The hint of a libido.

"Ichigo!" he admonished. He held his hand out low in front of him, then raised it "One short and cute as shit. The other one tall, dirty – uh," he snapped his fingers. "No... strawberry blond, flirty and hotter than hell!"

Shinji leaned back, bent at the knees, and clutched at the empty air with upraised palms.

"Come aaawwwn!"

Ichigo eyebrow's pinched together as he scratched the back of his head with one hand and scowled at a spot on the wall somewhere beyond his over-dramatic teammate.

"You didn't even notice, did you?" Shinji finally asked, exasperation quickly giving way to the stirrings of genuine intrigue. Forget the game. This was much bigger.

The scratching stopped, and Ichigo slid his hand down to rub at the back of his neck instead. It served as another brief distraction as he fought to remember what girls Shinji was talking about. It was only a few weeks ago. He remembered the _day_ because he'd been accosted by Grimmjow. He remembered being backed up against the wall, and held there between another wall of tense muscle and pissed off testosterone. He could even remember the faint smell of worn leather, the almost overpowering scent of shower gel, and what must have been some foreign antiperspirant. He swore he could smell it now, in fact.

But he couldn't remember the girls.

Ichigo's scowl deepened, and his nose wrinkled from his growing impatience. Finally, he replied.

"Unlike you, Shinji, I have actual _things_ on my mind."

Shinji tsked in admonishment. But he wasn't offended in the slightest. He was too curious. He cocked his head thoughtfully, resting an elbow in his hand, and tapped his lips with a forefinger.

"And, come to think of it... the last two times we went out, you had your choice of babes and you blew them off."

Ichigo's hand dropped into a ball at his side and he stiffened, honey-brown eyes narrowing with a wave of irritation as they landed on Shinji.

"So?" the rattled forward challenged. "Am I supposed to jump at every woman that talks to me?"

Ichigo's temper was quickly winding itself up. Shinji regarded the orange-haired man for a moment. There was a distinct trace of red fanning out beneath his eyes, and he was definitely ruffling his feathers at Shinji now. He wondered how far he could push the line before Ichigo would shut him down... or punch him out.

"Well, you could give 'em a chance when they ask you out. When's the last time you got _laid_?"

Shinji jerked and took a cautious step back when the hotheaded forward suddenly bristled like a wildcat being backed into a tight corner.

"You need to mind your own business," Ichigo warned, voice low and sharp.

"Okay! Okay." Shinji conceded, hands rising and patting the air in a gesture of peace. He was a little caught off guard by the force of the orangette's defensiveness. Ichigo was dead serious all of a sudden. Shinji supposed that might be enough to stop some people. But the young forward really should know better by now. If Ichigo thought a little scare tactic like that would dissuade Shinji, he obviously hadn't paid attention when Shinji was trying to pick up women. Ichigo was shit out of luck.

"Calm down, Chi- ...uhhh... Ichi. I was just kidding, yeah?" He plastered his second-most sincere smile across his face, tucked his hands into his pockets and shrugged a shoulder. He waited a beat for some of the tension in Ichigo's face to drain before he offered his unfeigned support in a syrupy voice.

"_Who_ you wanna sleep with is _your_ business."

"Yeah, it is..." Ichigo began. He was fed up with this pointless conversation and already turning to make his way back towards the dressing room before he stopped in his tracks. His eyebrows drew together with dawning realization.

_Wait. What was with that tone? Did Shinji think... ?_

Ichigo didn't have time to complete his thoughts, let alone turn around and rail Shinji about it. A loud voice was calling out his name. And there was no ignoring it.

"Kurosaki!" The shrill call brought Ichigo's head back around, but this time it wasn't the bluenet he was faced with. An voluptuous set of breasts bounced and jiggled their way towards him, coming to a sloshy stop so close to his chest that he was certain they and their owner were going to crash into him in some sort of cataclysmic, world ending disaster.

When that didn't happen, Ichigo raised his eyes, untangling them from the hypnotic, fluid motion and shimmering bronze skin. He tried to pull a comfortable smile through a slight blush as he hauled his focus up and onto the young lady's petite face.

"Uh. He- hello." He stumbled over his greeting.

This was the girl he'd seen fawning over his nemesis. Ichigo had to admit, if there was such a thing as a perfectly constructed woman, this one would arguably be in the running.

Why was she talking to that jerk? Grimmjow had no business with a girl like this.

"Hey," she pouted up at him, her olive eyes darkened with something that seemed far too predatory for such an attractive girl.

Or maybe he did.

Ichigo recognized that look instantly. He'd seen it a lot since he'd signed with the Reapers, from the ones who were hungry for a piece of rich hockey player, some for their money, some for the thrill of riding one. He wasn't exactly sure what this one was after, but this was definitely one woman to avoid. That was always the tricky part. Ichigo felt terribly unequipped to deal with pushy women. He had a hard time being blunt with them when he knew he really should be. No matter how aggressive they became, he didn't feel right about being rude.

"So, you're Ichigo, huh?" She twisted her body, coiling up to Ichigo, bringing one shoulder closer and walking her fingers up his chest. He watched her painted fingernails dig into his shirt with each climbing step, but he was too stunned to move. The girl leaned in, breasts pressing into his abdomen and bulging out of her v-cut top.

"I just love how talented you are with that big stick of yours," she hummed.

Ichigo blinked. His whaaa? He stiffened and swallowed, shifting away from the advancing breasts one small step. Was she for real?

"You know what would be a great idea?" She didn't wait for Ichigo to answer. "Meeting me after you're game tonight." She gave him an open mouthed smile, tongue flicking out across her full, glossy lips.

"I'll help you relax with a nice massage... _work_ that post game _stiffness_ out of those aching muscles."

Ichigo gaped, heart rate picking up, blood rushing away from his head, more from shock than anything, though. If she was trying to talk him into orgasm, it wasn't quite working. Grimmjow had slept with her. That thought alone was enough to leave him oddly limp and aroused at the same time.

"And maybe you could show me some of your techniques, like the way you slip that _hard_ puck between the goalies legs, hmmm?"

Ichigo tried to swallow around a dry throat, but failed. Dear god. That was enough of that.

"Th- uhhh... I... " Ichigo's throat bobbed as he finally swallowed, eyes darting to the side, away from the very frightening woman, seeking sanctuary from his always lustful teammate.

"Uh- Sh- Shin- ?"

The woman waited, a bit confused by Ichigo's stuttering and rapid eye movements, but still smiling like a hungry shark. When Ichigo finally regained the use of his voice and motor skills, he swivelled his head around to where he knew his blond team mate was still standing... but not helping, thank you very much.

Shinji wanted to pick up women? Well he could _have_ this one.

"Shinji?" he squeaked, trying to keep the hiss of anger out of his voice.

Shinji sent her his friendliest grin as he dipped his head and tipped an imaginary cap her way.

"Ma'm."

Yoruichi's assessing gaze scoured Shinji's body, and though she smiled, it was obvious to Shinji that it was nothing more than a polite gesture. She only had eyes for his pal right now.

Regardless, Shinji declined for the both of them, and he made as much of a show of it as he could. He could see Grimmjow's expression from here and he knew the sexta was watching this little performance. He didn't know what was or wasn't going on between the two of them right now, but as far as he was concerned, this was Grimmjow's woman. And even though it was the norm in their hockey world to date the same women, even to engage in threesomes and nights of excessive debauchery, he knew that Grimmjow was not inclined to share.

Hitting on this woman would be bad. It would be akin to poking a hungry, bad tempered dog with a very short piece of bacon. And other than to smile brightly and wave his hands in the air and claim loudly that they were both already taken, there was nothing Shinji could do.

Ichigo was going to have to talk his own way out of this one. And hopefully, Grimmjow would just let it go.

Shinji sighed internally. Because _that _would happen.

Yoruichi's overconfident smile drew back to something slightly less carnivorous, but she remained poised. This was a woman who wasn't used to being rejected. That she had the social graces not to go off on Ichigo like a bomb for refusing her was half the battle won. Instead, she reached out and coaxed Ichigo down to place an air kiss by his cheek. When she pulled back, Shinji dropped a heavy hand onto Ichigo's shoulder. He wasn't sure if his friend was alright. He looked semi-catatonic.

Yoruichi gave a slow wink, then turned and slinked back in Grimmjow's general direction, brushing past a few of the men, who paused their game of hacky sack and smiled in appreciation.

The bluenet was still leaning against the wall, at the edge of a small group of Reapers, but they'd all fallen silent. Shinji grit his teeth in concern, then leaned into Ichigo. He could feel the stiffness in his friend's shoulder, and he could almost feel the heat from the fallout that was sure to come.

"Oh, Ichigo," Shinji whispered. "You really stepped in it this time, didn't you?"

"Keh. I didn't step in anything," he replied, head swivelling to glare down at Shinji before returning to watch Yoruichi's slow retreat.

And beyond her, Grimmjow's arms were folded into a tight knot against his chest. And even from here, Ichigo could see them rise and fall with his harsh breathing.

**X X X**

Oh, Grimmjow was breathing hard alright. He'd watched the whole scene. And he was pissed. This was more than a mere sore spot on his pride.

Ichigo didn't need Grimmjow`s _help_? But he was fine with taking Grimmjow's _girl_?

Ichigo had just pressed the heel of his blade into the rawness of Grimmjow's exposed nerve. And he was twisting that knife edge like a corkscrew. The sexta needed a dictionary just to _pronounce_ the words he needed to explain just how much that pissed him off.

His anger only grew as he realized just how far out to the curb he'd been kicked, that the strange look in her eye earlier hadn't been nervous excitement at all. She just had other people she wanted to fuck. Grimmjow didn't have any particular claims on her. Not really. She wasn't his. Grimmjow knew that in his head, but right now, for some reason, he felt rejection piled on top of rejection. And to be passed over and replaced by... _that_?

She could sleep with whoever she wanted. But of all the people, why did it have to be… _him?_

Yoruichi manoeuvred her way back through the gauntlet of players, this time not interfering with their practice. She wasn't interested in a night with anyone else. When she was close enough so that Grimmjow wouldn't have to raise his voice to be heard, he snorted.

He knew the moment he opened his mouth, he would regret the consequences, but...

"Find what you were lookin' for, sweetheart?"

Yoruichi made to pass him by. The overconfident smile remained, but it sat only skin deep. She seemed miffed about something, but Grimmjow was too incensed to try and figure it out. Perhaps because she had a night of second rate sex ahead of her?

"Jealousy doesn't become you, Grimmjow." She slowed as she replied. Grimmjow's lip curled and he barked, rather than stated his reply.

"If you're into slumming it, then don't come crawling back to me."

Yoruichi stopped in her tracks beside him, chin rising, the walls of her cool exterior finally splintering with cracks.

"Teh! I can't see that happening, Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez." With that, Yoruichi strode off, long purple hair swinging off to the side as she turned her head back towards Grimmjow, and with a tight smile, threw a parting shot at the silent bluenet.

"What's a girl supposed to do with three inches, anyway?"

Grimmjow watched her until she disappeared out of sight. He couldn't take his eyes off her. If he did, he'd have to face the looks of his teammates. She'd just fucking humiliated him. And _he_ had happily played a huge part in that. The sexta growled as his eyes sought out the true source of his pain.


	10. Chapter 10

**And, here's the rest of what I didn't post yesterday. I thought of waiting and adding the next section to this one, but I've decided to post this and stick that with the next chapter. It will be a long one, but it's so much fun! ...I hope. **BRICK'D****

**And to those who hate Ichigo. Awww! Please don't hate Ichi! I've kept them both in Bleach character as much as I can. Ichigo is scowly, tempermental, but kindhearted to his core. So is this Ichigo. And he's just as confused as Grim. And imo, Grimmjow is at least 60 per cent the asshole in this story.**

**Or is he?**

**Enjoy.**

**JB**

* * *

**CHAPTER 10**

The expression on his face was worrying.

Grimmjow was back to looking at him like he was Lucifer.

The muscle of Ichigo's jaw twitched. The itch to take up the challenge was simmering beneath his skin. But nothing was going to be resolved here. Even Ichigo knew that by now. He turned and strode at a brisk pace - he was _not_ running - down the corridor, dismissing the blue-haired man, and leaving him to stand there with an ineffective glare. Ichigo hadn't done anything to deserve it anyway, and he wasn't going to encourage it.

Once he rounded the corner, he did break into a run. He hoped a couple of light laps around the building would loosen him up, his mind as well as his muscles. He needed to rid himself of this energy. It wasn't the good kind. It was restless, dark, more like a dead weight dragging him down than anything.

It seemed that everything Ichigo did, said, and thought was completely wrong. It didn't matter if he said something or stayed silent. It didn't even make a difference when he tried to stay out of the way. Somehow, his very presence was enough to spark a dispute. Grimmjow really had it in for him.

Ichigo's pace increased, and by the time he reached the locker room he practically stormed into it. He was furious. Somewhere beneath the miasma of anger, he felt a pang of insult and hurt. And he was irritated that he barely understood why. Of course he was offended by the accusation that he would hit on another man's woman. But why did he care so damn much what Grimmjow thought of him?

They hated each other, so what did it shitting matter? She sure was beautiful though, and just as bat shit crazy as Grimmjow. Maybe they were good for each other.

She'd stopped and talked to Grimmjow again. Ichigo guessed he knew what Grimmjow was doing tonight. He sniffed, looking at his watch. Two hours to game time. And Ichigo hadn't hooked up in almost as many months. Maybe he should have taken her up, stepped into Grimmjow's world for a night. Ichigo rubbed a hand absently across his navel as a warm flutter let him know that part of him found the idea more appealing than he cared to admit out loud.

Ichigo blinked as he came back to the here and now. He'd been sitting on the bench in a daze for nearly ten minutes, fingers toying with the black zipper of the hockey bag at his feet. He tasked himself as he pulled the zipper open. With a huff, Ichigo stood up and began undressing, eyes focused on the imperfections on his bit of bench in the corner. He paused as he took in the knotted markings, enveloped within the polished grain. Not perfect. But strong and beautiful. His eyes traced a looping crack in the wood. It met up with one of the knots, turning it into a six. He'd never noticed that before. He glared at it. This was his piece of bench, and he couldn't even keep that much for himself.

He ignored the sounds and rustles behind him, a few players beginning to trickle through the door. He just wanted to get suited up and refocused, leave whateverthehellthatwas back in the hall where it belonged.

He started to yank off his shirt, baring his long lean torso to the cool air of the room. A smooth, tight, six pack flexed and stretched as he raised his arms and drew the shirt up. Instead of just flipping it inside out, Ichigo began to pull his arms free from the long stretchy sleeves one at a time. One was about as far as he got.

He sensed, rather than heard the figure come up on him from behind.

"You're good at scurryin' around like a rat, ain'tcha?"

Ichigo wasn't prepared at all for the deep, angry rumble that seemed to blast against the back of his neck like a blistering desert sandstorm. And he wasn't ready for the powerful grip that caught his shoulder and jerked him part way around to face his aggressor.

As soon as his mind registered his predicament, Ichigo reacted, rounding on the bluenet, arms drawing up against his core to defend himself. Grimmjow was standing there, arms spread wide in exasperated anger.

"What the fuck, asshole? First you shot block me. Now you cock block me?"

Ichigo's eye twitched. Grimmjow was all up in his face again, not an ounce of concern that Ichigo might just pop him one. He loomed over Ichigo, his stance making him appear even larger than he already was.

Ichigo's rust coated torpedoes were already locked and loaded. He was long since done giving Grimmjow any leeway.

"Hell's your problem, Grimmjow?" he shot back. "You get up on the wrong side of somebody else's bed again?" Ichigo's stomach tightened. Shit. That didn't sound like jealousy at all. Maybe Shinji had a point.

A short intake of air was the only warning Ichigo got before Grimmjow's fist shot out.

He latched onto Ichigo's rumpled up shirt collar, twisting the material and tugging hard, pulling him in close. There was no snarl. No fanged teeth. No attempt to make a flashy show of how angry he was. The only tell of the fire than burned beneath was that his full lips had gathered and tightened into a creased ball, every last drop of living colour squeezed out by tension.

Ichigo grimaced as he was hauled forward. He expected to be hit on the spot. But he was quite surprised when he didn't feel the impact of Grimmjow's knuckles against his jaw. Something was holding the bluenet's fist back.

But Ichigo didn't have mental resources to contemplate the larger man's motives at the moment. Grimmjow had tightened his hold, and Ichigo instantly recoiled as the heated skin of Grimmjow's hand pressed against his collar bone, sharp knuckles digging into the muscles beneath his skin.

Time slowed. Then stopped.

Grimmjow pulled harder and stepped closer. Ichigo sucked in a breath as he first stumbled forward then came up hard against the wall, bare back meeting cold cement and knocking the same breath from his lungs. The young forward's teeth ground together inside his mouth as he fought his temper, determined not to swing first. But being jerked around like a stuffed dog toy was not cool. He was getting mad now. Ichigo longed to bring his knee up to greet Grimmjow's solar plexus, double him over, then wrap his hand around his neck and pin _him_ to the wall instead. But at the same time, every single cell in his body wanted to scamper very very far away from the man who was once again dangerously close.

Bleached blue eyes crackled with energy, barely contained. Ichigo's eyes darted between the soul shattering blue and the bloated black centres, trying to see the core of the blue solar storm, but even this close, the man behind them remained as elusive and impossible as lightening in a bottle. Lips flushed deep crimson as heat and life rushed back. All of these things, Ichigo noticed. The locker room had drawn quiet, gathered in on itself, as if waiting for an explosion, cringing in anticipation but unsure of what was coming.

Ichigo refused to break his stare as Grimmjow's eye's narrowed. He had Ichigo wrapped around his fist while they both waited for the next move.

So, why did Grimmjow feel like it was _his_ back against the wall?

His eyes. They were deep red brown like wet hazel nut shells. The bluenet glared right into those god damn eyes as Ichigo mirrored him. Grimmjow longed to crack them and see what was inside. What did Ichigo see when he looked through them?

What the fuck was he thinking? Now that he had him pinned, he didn't know quite what to do with himself. Somewhere, and he didn't know where, the tables had turned, again. Grimmjow was still angry, but now he was suddenly feeling stuck and... fascinated? It was an odd situation. He yearned to shake the orangette until his teeth broke loose, but at the same time Grimmjow was oddly content to just hold him there, watch the subtle changes in his expression, study his sharp scowl, search his dark angry eyes.

He could happily stand there and listen to his quickened breaths, feel the vibrations of his pulse against his fist, taste the heat and anger as it radiated off of the orangette and washed over Grimmjow's lips. He really could just stand there like that. And yet, still, he wanted to throttle him good. Ichigo needed to get it, though whatever it was remained as elusive as ever to the bluenet. A confused frown brushed across his face. But it only remained for a moment. As soon as Grimmjow realized what he was doing, he glared harder at the younger man.

He was admittedly growing more flustered and confused about why he was even angry at Kurosaki. Grimmjow wasn't so gone that he couldn't see logic. Yoruichi wasn't even his girlfriend. She was just a good lay. But with those fearless chestnut brown eyes so close to his own, staring right back at him with such rooted defiance, there was nothing on earth that could make him back down. He ground his prey against the wall, already bruised knuckles burning where they made contact with his skin, imprinting into flesh, and bending bone.

Ichigo jolted.

"Don't touch me," he snapped.

Ichigo grabbed the knuckles which were binding him and wrenched Grimmjow's hand from his collar before batting it away, stunning the bluenet with his raw strength and speed. Grimmjow's eyes flashed with surprise, and a surge of anxiety shot straight to his dick. It was a slip he couldn't afford, and he managed to recovered his composure almost instantly.

"Keep yer hands off a' my fuckin' stuff," he growled, gravelly voice lowered in warning.

Ichigo ignored the sick little thrill that sound produced, and instead of blushing, his eyes widened then narrowed in affront as a small sound escaped his throat.

His... _stuff_? What the hell was his problem? It didn't seem like that woman _belonged _to _anybody_.

And _as if _he would want any of Grimmjow's sloppy seconds!

Ichigo drew himself up to his full height, even rising to the balls of his feet in an effort to lock eyes with the taller bluenet. He was going to rip Grimmjow a new one, then tell Grimmjow where he could stick his stuff. But despite how annoyed he was by what Grimmjow had just said to him, Ichigo still hesitated. Grimmjow's fleeting expression was setting off alarms in Ichigo's mind, but for what he didn't know. How could he hold on to his anger when Grimmjow was giving him desperate looks like that? The idiot was trying to cover it with a scowl, but he still had this lost puppy face that was causing Ichigo's brain cells to scatter. His heart was thrumming a steady beat in his chest, and at the tone of his voice, a shiver of something, not quite fear, had skittered like a feather down past the skin of Ichigo's stomach and settled in his navel. Ichigo nearly flushed in alarm. He didn't know what that feeling was, but he would just add it to the growing list of things he didn't like about the bluenet and deal with it later. Maybe.

"You hearin' me, you sneaky little shit?" Grimmjow's hot breath was like fire rolling off the sun, slamming into his face and setting fire to his skin, his good will incinerating into ashes.

Screw that. And screw Grimmjow's _little boy lost _expression. Ichigo had no problem staying mad at him. Right now, Grimmjow's demanding attitude rated a helluvalot higher on Ichigo's list of priorities than whatever was going on in his tiny head. Ichigo would not be accused by this man or anyone else of something he did not do. He opened his mouth, intent on making that point very clear. But somehow, as it always was when he was dealing with Grimmjow, that was not quite how it came out.

"I'm only picking up what you couldn't hold onto."

"..."

Ichigo watched as Grimmjow blinked once, ultramarine eyes widening with shock and filling with murderous intentions, while the bulge of his throat jumped in time with a strangled sound of disbelief.

Ichigo cringed inside. Did he _want_ Grimmjow to hit him? He _must_, or else why would he have said that?

Ichigo hadn't actually taken the girl's number in the end. And he never would have. Grimmjow must have known that. Christ, he heard everything else when he wanted to. But maybe he really didn't know. And, pressed bare back against the cold locker room wall, Ichigo was feeling a strong and growing inclination to leave it that way. He braced, waiting for the painful free-for-all that was headed his way.

But it never came.

"Ahem."

Kensei Muguruma and the Reaper's goalie, Abari Renji, strolled into the locker room after pausing in the doorway to seize up the growing situation. Kensei simply cleared his throat and regarded the both of them with a meaningful look, not expecting to have to use words for Grimmjow and Ichigo to understand what he meant. Neither man turned their heads, aware of who had entered the room, but Ichigo saw Grimmjow flinch noticeably, like an attack dog that had just received a command to release its quarry.

Ichigo's apricot brows drew up out of their frown in awe. _That_ was a neat trick.

Though Kensei had already broken up the bulk of the argument without so much as a word, it was Renji who spoke first. He rolled his head and sighed loudly, making it obvious that he was at the end of his own rope.

"Would _you_ two just _get_ a room," he groaned. All kidding aside.

Blue and orange both stiffened. The bluenet's hand fell away from Ichigo's chest, and Ichigo dropped back onto the soles of his feet, palm automatically rubbing at the skin of his collar bone, which was suddenly burning more than it should. His heart too was pitching a fit, and relief washed through him like a gust of fresh air as Grimmjow turned away.

The sexta bent to the side and grabbed his hockey bag off the floor where he'd dumped it between Ichigo and the doorway. Grimmjow was distracted enough by the redhead's comment to leave things with Ichigo be for the moment. Humour like that was far from abnormal in the men's locker room, but the suggestion still irked the bluenet in a way he wasn't prepared for. The comment had instantly filled his head with the image of Ichigo still in his grip, but pinned against the wall of a bedroom, or pressed into the sheets of a bed. He realized then, that the argument had left him half hard. Unless he wanted the appearance of his growing hard-on to become the subject of conversation, he had to let Ichigo go.

Grimmjow grunted as he padded by the loud-mouthed goalie, running his eyes up and down his long torso with disdain while Renji eyed him back with suspicion. The enforcer tilted his head quickly to the side with an audible crack. He was done with people getting in between him and Ichigo. Unfortunately, he couldn't injure the team's goalie, but maybe Grimmjow could just... smack him around a little.

"Hey, Grim," Kensei called, his friendly tone edged with the trademark authority that Grimmjow couldn't ignore.. "Got a pic here of my baby girl from her birthday party. Come an' see." Kensei grinned as he held up his phone. "Total cake face."

Grimmjow held Renji's gaze for a moment, then nodded at the smiling Kensei and made his way across the room, leaving Renjii to expel a long breath. Damn, but Grimmjow had left him feeling a little shaky. Not a good condition for a goaltender. As Renji rifled through his gear, he wondered how the hell Kurosaki could go up against Grimmjow like that day after day without becoming a total basket case. Renji flicked his head to the right, his gaze travelling past Shiro, to where Ichigo still stood in the corner. The kid hadn't even moved. Renji squinted as he considered the young forward. He looked like he was caught up in some internal fantasy... probably of launching himself at the Sexta... or perhaps... he wasn't very good at this, but, perhaps his expression was more that of somebody feeling the sting of rejection. _That_ Renji was familiar with. He supposed it made a little bit of sense. Temperament aside, Ichigo was a guy who liked to get along. But he and Grimmjow were oil and water. He paused a moment, before mentally shrugging off the subject. Their problem was significant, but he had bigger things to think about right now, like protecting his goal crease.

Ichigo simmered in the corner while he watched the back of the blue-haired man head to the other side of the ring, er, locker room. He mumbled to himself as he began to wrestle off the shirt that seemed to have become hopelessly tangled around his neck. Shiro's crackly voice floated beside his ear as Ichigo finally snapped and ripped the shirt the rest of the way off. He glared at the torn piece of fabric. Looked like he was going home shirtless.

"Ichigo, you and Grim ain't getting along again? Heh... Whassat all about?"

Ichigo spared the pale-skinned player a sideways glare. Like he didn't know. The jerk was standing right by Grimmjow went it all went down. Ichigo was set to tell Shiro to zip it, but his hard eyes softened as he took in his appearance. The cut under his eye had turned into a healthy shiner, and Ichigo didn't want to let his anger out on the guy when he was probably just asking an innocent question to be helpful. Ichigo took a breath before answering Shiro, and in hushed tones. He didn't need Bionic Ears listening in again.

Shiro listened, lending his encouragement in the form of grunts of agreement and eager nods as Ichigo let off a little steam. If Shiro had to go back out there tonight, black-eyed and stiff, he wanted the whole team behind him. Right now, Ichigo was completely out to lunch, and the warm up hadn't even started yet. After last night's performance and the guys' post game chat in the parking lot, the team knew they needed to keep an eye on the two hotheads. Until the coach decided to do something, it was up to them to at least step in discreetly. It was necessary to maintain the peace.

"The guy acts like he's our national dish," Ichigo grumbled.

A quizzical frown ghosted across Shiro's face, but he nodded in encouragement.

At the other end of the room, similar efforts were underway.

Grimmjow huffed as he cinched the belt of his dark blue hockey pants. He gave it an extra tug to tighten it around his toned and tapered waist, not an ounce of fat appearing once it was secured. The blue-haired forward continued to gripe even as he dressed. Kensei was sitting with his back to Grimmjow, out of Grimmjow's line of sight, but still present and listening with his usual patience and humour.

"Fucking guy... screws up my lay, mouths off about it, then looks at me like he ain't got a clue about nothin'."

"Ichigo did that?" Kensei asked, surprised. That's not the way Shinji had told it. He shrugged to himself. He was familiar enough with Grimmjow's temper to know that the bluenet was going to put his own Ichigo's-the-cause-of-everything-bad-in-the-world slant to the story, no matter how far from the truth it was. And no amount of arguing would dissuade him when he was in the midst of one of his pig-headed tantrums. Kensei felt a bit sorry for Ichigo, actually. Grimmjow really could be the biggest baby at times.

Grimmjow shook his head, the pointed tips of his long, blue bangs the only things loose enough to shake side to side.

"Fucking ignorant," he grumbled,

"Don't be shy Grim. Tell us how you really feel," came the bland reply.

"Che. Maybe that little bitch over there is the one I should be fuckin' t'night."

A loud snort of amusement erupted from bench level beside Grimmjow, and the bluenet turned to see what his friend found just so damn funny about that statement. It wasn't like he hadn't make comments like that about his teammates before. It was just obnoxious guy talk. Everybody did it.

A head of silver white hair popped up as Kensei abandoned his efforts to lace his skates. Grimmjow glared, but said nothing when the older man sat up straight and twisted around, catching Grimmjow's wary eye with a mischievous smirk. He brought his fist to his mouth and cleared his throat.

The clatter of gear and the hum of steady banter ceased, and Kensei's voice rang loud and clear through the entire room as he fearlessly repeated Yoruichi's earlier insult. The one that, although only a few people had been close enough to hear, had already circulated through the entire team and most of the arena staff.

"Three inches, eh Jaegerjaquez?" By now, Kensei's grin was eating his whole face.

Grimmjow's hearty scowl resisted for a moment, before it finally gave way to a cocksure smirk. His reply gained him a round of laughter and playful jeers. One person, though, tucked into the corner, quietly choked on a cough.

"Heh. Some people like it that wide."

* * *

**Kay, that's that. The fuse is lit. It hits the fan next chapter. Promise. )  
JB**


	11. Chapter 11

**I lied to you. Wasn't intentional. This IS a fight, but not the FUN one.  
Once the chapter was finished it was too long to put with the next as per my original promise. Guess I'm goin' ta hell. Awww. :(  
But I'm all over the next part, as soon as the double vision goes away. *shakes head*  
See mistakes or a sentence I never finished? Probably. PM, me if you do.**

**Junichiblue**

* * *

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

Ichigo watched as two of his teammates tipped their heads forward and ground each others' helmets together.

And as he did, he wondered; how was such a routine sound, that clunk of high impact-resistant plastic, able to create such a profound pang of longing inside him?

It was a show of affection. A nuzzle. A brotherly snuggle. It said; _good luck. I've got your back._

For a player, that kind of camaraderie was supposed to be one of the most special parts of the game. Of course, Ichigo had that as much as any other player in the league, but it was tainted, weakened. The feeling of belonging, watered down with poison.

Even as Ichigo wandered down the player's bench to take a seat, the oppressive vision of lawless blue hair and turbulent eyes kept popping back up, the face overlaid with a skull and crossbones. It was fitting. Ichigo was still replaying tonight's first dispute in his head. And yes, it would the first, because he would bet both his skates they would be having words again before the night was out. But right now, Ichigo was wondering what he could have done to change things, wishing he had said something different, though he couldn't decide if he would have preferred to slug the bluenet or make peace. It was a fair bet though, that short of grovelling on his knees and giving Grimmjow the perverse admiration he wanted, peace between them was going to remain far beyond the bounds of reality. And words, so far, had gotten them nowhere.

It seemed like violence was the only language the enforcer really understood. Violence and sex.

Grimmjow was well known for his shameless, indulgent ways with the ladies. And he barely had to bat those long, dark eyelashes to get a woman. Whether they were on the road or at home, some daring females would always approach him.

From what Ichigo had seen, '_come on any and all takers_' seemed to be his motto. Not that any of his 'takers' had been anything to sneeze at. In fact, though some screamed trashy to Ichigo, most of his impromptu 'relationships' were with beautiful women. And they were usually taller than average, and athletic. He supposed it made sense. A big brute of guy like Grimmjow probably didn't know how to be gentle. In fact, from what Ichigo had deduced, he just threw them onto the bed and drove into them without even thinking of their needs. The ones Ichigo had heard screaming were probably just the lucky ones.

Perhaps that was why there were so many. Grimmjow was a pig and no girl in her right mind would go back for the same treatment.

Ichigo had noticed, although he had no idea why he would, that Grimmjow hadn't been leaving their games with women in tow like he had just weeks ago. And on their trips, his room had been a little quieter lately. Well, didn't the great predators of the world, like gators and snakes, fast for weeks after binging on their prey? Even a predator needed time to recoup.

Ichigo slumped onto the player's bench as the first period began, aware of the ache in his nuts from last night's mistreatment - compliments of one low-life, woman humping, bastard - but oblivious to the music and enthusiastic noise pouring from the stands. He pulled off his gloves so he could readjust his shoulder pads, eyebrows knotting themselves into a pensive scowl. His mind was already looping back in an obsessive circle to put a finger on his feelings, to make a label for his nemesis.

The poison thing was alright, but it wasn't quite what he was going for.

He felt a small catch as he pulled his hand back out from beneath his jersey. He stared at his fingers, squinting at the small, hard, sliver of skin that stuck out from the side of the nail on his third finger. A moment later, that small piece of dried out flesh was gone, bit clean through and spat out onto the hacked up floor of the players' bench.

That's what he was. Grimmjow was a hangnail on Ichigo's clean cut world.

**X X X**

"You fuckin' hoser!"

Grimmjow's angry voice echoed across the rink as the play was stopped. The fans cheered with defiance and vigour in his defence. It was all aimed at a Ryoka player who'd tried to call Grimmjow out for charging (jumping before hitting his opponent) near the end of the second period. The hit had looked a bit sketchy, but after a quick review of the tape and a moment of debate, the officials waved it off. They agreed that Grimmjow's feet hadn't left the ice, and the sexta made sure to pass by the Ryoka and rub it in good.

The guy was annoying as shit. Keigo Asano was a snivelling wimp, the armpit of the hockey world as far as Grimmjow was concerned.

"Next time, Jaegerjaquez. You wait," he bleated over his shoulder, skating towards the imagined safety of his bench and his team mates.

Grimmjow easily kept up with him, skirting right past several Ryoka players without so much as an 'if you please'. He could smell the fear rolling off of the miniscule player. Asano was afraid the sexta might snap a rod on him and show his true colours. He would, but what fun would that be when it was so easy? There was less than a challenge there, not even worth his time.

Besides, the guy was about to piss himself, and Grimmjow didn't want to risk getting any of it on him.

"Suck my fat one!" he shouted back. "I don't need to jump to crush a dickless, cum guzzlin' pipsqueak like you."

Keigo scrambled for his team's bench, the look of honesty in his eye telling Grimmjow he may have hit closer to the mark that he'd intended. How about that? Like he was going to apologize for it, though. Not a chance.

Grimmjow at times didn't express himself with words very well. Unless he was angry. Yeah. He had that covered. He knew at least twenty different ways to call someone a cock sucker without actually using either of the words.

In fact, when the sexta was provoked, the words 'loud mouth' were arguably accurate, and seemed to be on special reserve just for him. He had opinions, and he generally voiced them without restraint. But when it came to feelings of a more intimate nature, he was definitely more of a physical guy. Less talk, more _doing_. That was the way he liked it. And whenever he was "_doing_", he expressed himself like a pro.

Somehow Ichigo had found his way into that second category, the one where Grimmjow was more comfortable being physical. Grimmjow just seemed to stumble around him. Sure, he got some shots off. He wasn't a mute. But he just seemed to lose it whenever his eyes met hair so bright it physically hurt to look at, and eyes so full of challenge and furious pride that he damn near burned with the urge to mount the bastard in some base primal show of domination.

The vibration in his hand alerted him a moment too late to the puck that had somehow found its way onto its stick. He watched with some dismay as the black disc bounced away again. When the hell had the game even started up again? It didn't really matter. The play had lasted seconds, and the whistle was blowing to signal the end of the second period.

But it mattered. Where was his head at? Had he really been lost in thought while on the ice? Christ, he had to get his marbles in check, because if he kept up this kind of bullshit, he was going to be traded faster than his hockey card.

**X X X**

Grimmjow rolled into the dressing room like a tsunami making landfall, gloves and helmet flying in opposite directions. The danger of injuring someone wasn't a concern. He'd been the first one off the ice. And he'd even shoved Kurosaki out of the way just to do it. Not that the orangette would bite, though.

His stick was the last to go. It landed on the bench, bounced once, skidded sideways across the polished surface, then toppled onto the floor by his locker. At least that was one thing he didn't have to round up once he'd cooled off enough to consider it an issue.

Second period was already over and their performance so far had been abysmal. The Ryoka's were a chump team. For crap's sake, they didn't even have snow in their part of their country. Hockey wasn't even in their blood. Yet, somehow, they were racking up points on the Reaper's like a pinball machine. It wasn't the goalie's fault. Renji just had terrible coverage. And the forwards, himself included, seemed completely hopeless. They couldn't have held onto the puck if it was taped to their fucking sticks.

Grimmjow's last nerve was a but distant memory. He was loathed to say it, but he damn near yearned for the days when Ichigo was getting on it. From this vantage point, last night seemed like halcyon days.

Tired, interrupted, hurt, accused, insulted, beaten... Grimmjow was losing it in ways he didn't even recognize anymore.

The heavy clomp and clatter of discouraged men and sharp steel blades poured into the room not a second behind the bluenet, but he barely heard them. His jaw was clenched, and the massive breaths that heaved in and out of his chest were taking the noisy root through his nose. He was pacing too, his path so short he was nearly stalking in tight circles.

He was so far off his game, he couldn't even see the ice anymore. And it was all because of that orange-haired twerp. Grimmjow's mind wouldn't let go of determined brown eyes, forged in flame and hard like an iron landscape.

He'd been so distracted that when he'd gotten into a fight with a Ryoka player, the gangly little shit had somehow managed to get his filthy Ryoka jersey off and up and tangled around Grimmjow's head. He'd been swinging blind until the officials broke it up. When Grimmjow had finally pulled free and realized he had the jersey in his hand as he crossed the empty ice, he'd tossed it into the air, then, in a tantrum fit for a preschooler, tried to drop-kick the other players' jersey out of the building, much to the delight of the fans and some of his teammates.

Well, wasn't that just fucking ducky.

He was a great at providing entertainment. Maybe he should just give up on his dream and join a travelling fucking comedy show.

He pivoted to begin another short strafing run, and the sight of orange hair, both as stunning and pretentious as the setting sun, stopped him in his tracks. The need to kick the shit out of something was roaring in his blood. That colour was like a beacon, a target. Kurosaki was a lie. Nothing could be that beautiful, and be real. He wanted to rip away the layers of arrogance and illusion until he reached the hollow nothing that was encased inside.

But like the shadows that lurked and crawled along the landscape, the Reaper's coach followed. Grimmjow's temper would have to wait. The team needed to forge a new attack. There was no time to lick their wounds. They had fifteen minutes to rest and regroup.

This was supposed to be the point where the coach encouraged the team, told them they _could_ and they _would,_ and all that sweet crap. But the coach's pep-talk and words of encouragement sounded a lot more like a scathing rebuke. There was talk of the man retiring from coaching soon, but the yellowed whites of his eyes, and throbbing veins in his neck said something different. He lived for this game, if and when it killed him.

While the coach gave the team a collective spanking, Grimmjow gulped down vast quantities of the Reaper's high performance sports drink, diluted with water to his liking. Tired or not, the bluenet always seemed able to call up vast reserves of anger fuelled energy, with or without supplements.

When the blustering hand ended, he looked up, but remained fixed to his seat. He watched as the team began to flow out the door like cooling lava. They weren't in any hurry to get back out on the ice. Once again, the coach had done a bang up job of inspiring confidence. If this was Grimmjow's team, they wouldn't be in this situation at all.

Downcast eyes slid to the side with interest as half the team filed out the door, number fifteen lagging behind to commiserate with one of his teammates. Grimmjow squeezed his water bottle one last time, the plastic casing crumpling and caving in as much as his cheeks as he sucked out the last drops of liquid.

Kensei Muguruma patted each of the players who passed him by on the shoulder before he made to follow. The rest of the team was still making adjustments after taking a leak and would be right behind them. Kensei nodded across the room at the bluenet still parked on the bench. Grimmjow was a virtual Ryoka clearing house tonight, sending the smartest men scattering, and removing several unfortunate players from the game. Despite his bulldog performance, the Reaper's were still losing. Even his best wasn't enough. Kensei could tell that the stress was getting to his friend, and he wanted to give the bluenet some extra encouragement, but they were all in the same boat. And knowing Grimmjow, he would only resent Kensei's interference, well intentioned or not, deeming it as hand holding.

Instead, Kensei turned to leave, but a small scene behind him caught his attention, and he made one last pit stop before heading back towards the ice.

Shinji had muttered something to Ichigo that Kensei didn't quite pick up. It must have been good, because even Ichigo was grinning, sardonic though it was.

"What's that, Hirako?" Kensei prodded.

Shinji gave the team's captain a conspiratory eye before leaning in to enlighten the older man without making himself heard aloud, lest the coach come waltzing back through the door.

"The higher the monkey climbs up the tree, the easier it is to see his big asshole."

Kensei couldn't contain the laugh, and it was out before he could stop it. He shook his head in admonishment at Shinji and Ichigo, but grinned all the way out of the room. It was unprofessional to be making snide comments about their own coach during game time, but Shinji Hirako made an excellent point. The man's popularity had taken a grand nose dive over the past year. He didn't seem capable of making the changes the team needed, and everyone was suffering as a result. They needed real leadership, and there was only so much Kensei could do to muster the men's spirit. He was just as worn out as the rest of them.

The moment Kensei was gone, Grimmjow rose.

He didn't even wait to reach the other side of the room before he started in on his partner.

"Why the fuck am I even out there wasting my time on a piece 'a shit player like you?"

The orangette didn't react quite as Grimmjow had expected at first. Instead, he brought one arm out and stilled Shinji, who looked ready to defend him.

Ichigo produced an agitated sound as he swung around to face the bluenet. Ichigo had a thumping migraine that was beating the shit out of his skull, and he had a name for it. Grimmjow. If there had been a pill invented to take the Grimmjow out of his head, he'd have swallowed it. It might have seemed like the attack was coming out of nowhere, but the two of them had locked horns during their shifts more than once, and Ichigo had received what he liked to call _Grimmjow's stink eye_ a few times.

"Oh, go suck eggs, Jaegerjaquez," Ichigo snapped.

Ichigo needed to stay away from Grimmjow right now. He could feel a serpentine hunger moving through his veins where blood should have been. And telling Grimmjow to chew on a chicken's ass was just about the nicest way he could think of at the moment to let Grimmjow know that he should back off.

Apparently, Grimmjow took that as an invitation, and Ichigo found himself backed into the same corner as before. His hard plastic shoulder pads knocked against the wall, muffled by the fabric of his jersey. It didn't hurt, but he grunted anyway. He was becoming far too familiar with this position.

"I don't get why everybody is so in love with your ass," Grimmjow huffed. "You ain't done nothing for this team in weeks."

Ichigo's jaw opened then closed again, and he settled on a deep breath, instead of the scathing retort that had jumped into his head and nearly rolled from the tip of his tongue. Oh, how Ichigo wanted to tell Grimmjow he could go straight to the depths of hell and take his stupid opinions with him. But he couldn't. Because no matter how much of what the bluenet said might sound like empty mudslinging, Grimmjow was basically right.

"You got no excuses with me keeping 'em off your back. If yer gonna keep taking a paycheck, the least you can do is put it in the fuckin' net once in awhile."

"Back off, Grimmjow. I'm not doing this with you."

The statement had about the same affect as a fly swatter on a bee hive.

"Just 'cause yer here doesn't mean you can slack off," the bluenet persisted.

Ichigo was floored. This? Coming from Grimmjow? It was... un-swallowable. Just because he'd had a bad run didn't mean he was worthless. Grimmjow was throwing boulder sized rocks in a very fragile glass house. The blue-haired forward was no better, and Ichigo wasn't going to just stand there and take his shit.

"What did you say?" Ichigo bit out, voice lowered, hands tightened inside his gloves. He wished he hadn't put them on now.

Ichigo pushed off the wall and took a sudden step forward until his chest was pressed up against Grimmjow. The bluenet wasn't expecting it at all, and Ichigo's body weight was enough to force Grimmjow to take several stumbling steps back towards the centre of the room. Grimmjow grunted, and cursed inwardly. Little fucker was quick when he wanted to be, and strong to boot. He had to give him that.

Ichigo's gaze remained level, but his eyes were hazed with anger. Grimmjow couldn't deny the giddy little thrill that raced through him, that he was gettin' off on crossing swords with Ichigo and pushing him around. For the moment, he felt a sense of control again. This was a damn sight better than spinning in circles on the ice. If they'd been playing on a lake, Grimmjow would have drown himself in freezing waters long ago.

Grimmjow ignored the noises being made by the other players still in the room. Someone, Renji, muttered for them to take it easy, and moved to Ichigo's back, but neither of them gave a damn. They both had scores to settle, didn't they. Grimmjow wanted to feel Ichigo break in his hands, and Ichigo was just as eager to rumble with Grimmjow.

Grimmjow could feel it.

"You're nothin' but dead weight, and I'm sick of ya."

Grimmjow chuffed in disgust. No reaction. What was Ichigo waiting for?

The blue-eyed player's lip curled and he fixed Ichigo with a look dripping with disdain. Kurosaki Ichigo was supposed to be a great asset to the team. But his presence had been nothing but trouble for the sexta. If he would just take his shit and get gone, then Grimmjow might be able to breath again.

"Go back to the minors, Kurosaki," he sneered. "You belong there."

Ichigo had been hoping against hope that Grimmjow would wrap it up and move on with his life until _that_ moment. The sentiment drove a spike into Ichigo's gut, and he finally found his tongue.

"And you're just a goon, Grimmjow. If it weren't for that, you'd have no business in this game." His voice was as calm as frozen water and just as cold.

Everybody seemed to move at once.

Orange and blue moved towards each other, closing the gap and stopping only when a blockade of _suddenly everywhere _hands and arms latched onto both men's arms and shoulders and pulled them up short.

"Yer nothing but a smart mouth punk," Grimmjow snapped.

"Tch! Says the old guy," Ichigo crowed.

"What? Who you callin' old?" Grimmjow's voice cracked and broke as it reached a high note. "I'm twenty-five, ya stupid little shit!"

"Oooh, I'm sorry, says the stupid little shit. Your battery low? You need me to speak up?"

The other man's azure eyes snapped open with surprise and rage as the orange-haired player began spewing ridiculous insults like a fountain. Ichigo was letting their argument veer away from all logic. He seemed to know that a fight Grimmjow couldn't win with reason would only spur him faster towards violence.

Ichigo wanted to throw it down, but he wanted Grimmjow to lose it first. And oh, didn't Grimmjow just fall for it.

"With the way you play, you're gonna be old and used up long before me, Jaegerjaquez..."

Grimmjow jerked.

"You fuck..."

"...and when you're gone, I'll still be playing the game!"

"Yer..."

"Look at you. Covered in bruises all the time. You think you're gonna last? Why don't you just save us all the trouble and retire now?"

"Watch yer mouth, you fuckin..."

Grips tightened all around as both men stretched and strained towards one another, pulling fiercely against strong muscles that held them fast. But Ichigo didn't let up. It was his turn to go off, and this blue-haired bastard had it coming.

"Oh, don't worry Grimmjow," Ichigo taunted. "I'll be sure to wave at you from the ice whenever I score. I won't forget ya."

A savage growl and the snapping of teeth was the only response Ichigo got. It would have sent most reasonable men scurrying, but Ichigo was far from reasonable and far too pissed to be afraid. And it wasn't like he didn't have a temper of his own. In fact, he wanted nothing more than to watch the bluenet's composure crumble. It was entertaining as hell.

And if the other men would just back off and let them fucking _go_, they could sort their shit out in a hurry, the way they wanted to. Grimmjow looked like he was ready to throw it all away and murder Ichigo then and there, but Ichigo couldn't have cared less. Right now, he was so wound, he was barely making sense, and he couldn't have stopped if he wanted to.

"You think you're some kinda immortal God, Grimmjow? Well, I've got news for you... Mother Nature? And Father Time...?" Ichigo jerked forward, rising to the tips of his skates. "Undefeated pal!"

Grimmjow was about as flustered as he was pissed at Ichigo's nonsensical tirade.

"Yer an idiot!" he shrieked.

"Yeah? Well I'm an idiot who's a lot better off when _you're_ not around!" Ichigo yelled, no less incensed.

They _both_ seemed to stagger at the verbal punch.

Grimmjow's mouth stayed wrenched open, right where he'd left it. Ichigo blinked once, a look of surprise pulling the sneer in his upper lip back down as he stared into eyes like blue coated steel, waiting a single heart beat for the next inevitable cheap shot.

Apparently Grimmjow had swallowed his own tongue, because other than a catch in his throat, he wasn't making a sound. He looked, angry, yes of course. But the way the skin around his forehead and eyes pulled taught made him look almost... wounded.

Ichigo won the battle to regain his poise first.

And wounded was just what Ichigo was going for. He took advantage of his partner's silence and launched into another tirade that was sure to stir him up.

"What happened after you left last night, huh? Eh?! We won! You think you know so much? Can you add that one up in your head, professor Jaegerjaquez?

He seemed to be compressing.

"Ffffff-"

"Proof is in the pudding, Grimmjow!"

Right in the feel-bads.

At once, the pressure in the room reached its peak and broke as if there were a physical snapping of the air.

"Rrrrrrrr... You little FREAK! I'mma tear you a new one!" the bluenet bellowed.

Grimmjow lunged forward, and if Ichigo had any common sense left at all, he would have cut and run. Instead, Ichigo tried to meet him.

It was everything the other players could do to keep the two struggling offence-men from breaking free and going at it like wild animals in the locker room.

As the wall of struggling men swayed back and forth, players from both sides of the confrontation shared concerned looks, though multiple sets of eyes had rolled as the argument completed its downward spiral and degraded into sheer stupidity. Several players had amused faces, while others looked upon the fight with the apprehension it deserved.

It was a bad scene. Very, very bad.

For them. For the team.

Players squabbling to the point of wishing each other a brutal and bloody death was not good for team moral, and everybody was beginning to feel it.

Their feud was poison in the atmosphere.

"Hey! Break it up!" Kensei's commanding voice echoed off the walls of the locker room, and everybody seemed to freeze at once, knit together in a tangled quilt of arms and bodies.

"What the hell is GOING ON HERE?" he snapped. "The coach sends me back to find out where the hell half his team is, and THIS is what you're doing?" The older man glared across the rabble of men, until his eyes landed like atom bombs on the two men at the centre of the chaos.

"We're in the middle of a game for Christ's sake! Get it together and save your squabbling for your own time!"

It took a lot of bull to push the team's captain into the red, and he was damn well in the zone now. He had already said his peace to both the men and gotten nowhere, and like everyone else on the team, he'd left it up to the two "adults" to act professional despite their problems. Kensei turned to the redheaded goalie who was still straining to hold Ichigo back.

"Renji, get Kurosaki out of here. Now," he barked.

Renji reacted instantly to the command, but grunted in surprise when he tried and ultimately failed to move the orangette. There was no way Ichigo was this heavy, but it was like trying to use his bare hands to move a old growth tree stump who's roots were firmly planted deep into the earth.

Even as Renji struggled with his task, Ichigo's charred brown eyes never left Grimmjow's, who's own eyes stayed frozen on him in a murderous blue glare. The two men seemed to be connected at the eyes. They weren't spewing venom at each other any more, but somehow they were still exchanging unpleasant words. It was easy to see that the thoughts were there.

Renji sent a pleading look to Shinji who was beside him, and with assistance from the other player, Renji finally yanked Ichigo hard enough to throw the orangette off balance, and began herding him forcefully towards the door.

Kensei reached a solid arm between the huddle of players, who were still keeping Grimmjow in place, and gripped the bluenet's shoulder firmly.

"Grimmjow. Cool it, would you? We've got a game to play." His voice was level now, but firm. It was the best way to grab the sexta's attention and hopefully calm him down.

Grimmjow's eyes just barely flickered towards Kensei, the only sign that he had even heard him. He was still completely focused on the orangette and watching intently as Ichigo was shoved out of the room by the red-haired goalie. It wasn't until the younger man was out of sight that Grimmjow even twitched.

None of the grips on him had lessened, though. No one was going to let him go until they felt the muscles that were bunched and wound like steel cables beneath their hands begin to uncoil, and it was clear that the bristling sexta was ready to stand down.

"Hn."

Finally, the bluenet pulled back, shrugging out of the barrier of hands that had kept him from reaching his target. He twisted around and gathered up his gloves and helmet, shoving his gear roughly into place as the rest of the players dispersed and began to the same. They were slow about it though, their eyes still watching him warily in case he should make a move.

"Soul Reapers," Kensei yelled to the group of men who seemed incapable of moving fast enough for his liking. "Let's go already. We should already be on the bench. Third's about to start."

The men jumped into action, as if just remembering where they were and what they were supposed to be doing tonight. They began filing quickly out the door, skates and sticks clattering. Kensei reached out and patted Grimmjow on the shoulder as he took up the back of the line.

"Keep it together out there, Grim."

"Che."

"Grim. Focus, and just do your job, kay? We'll deal with this later, alright?"

"Hn."

Grimmjow spared him a dangerous, narrowed glare, defiance and disbelief waging war behind his eyes. But after a moment of silence, he nodded affirmative. He didn't dare speak right now. His brain was steaming inside his skull, and the only ammo he had would turn the air blue. He was sick and fuck'n tired of being told to do his job. What in the flying fuck did they think he'd been doing all this time anyway? If one more person told him to do his job he was going to light the ice on fuck'n fire and burn the whole fuck'n place to the ground.

* * *

**Is it bad that I'm getting bored with my own writing? If I use the words glowered or frowned or snapped or snarled one more time... I swear... Dammit, Ichigo, why do you have to be such a frowny-faced bastard?!**

**Did anyone get that Grimmjow was projecting his own insecurities and perceived weaknesses onto Ichigo at more than one point? Did you catch the obvious line? I always wonder if some of my intended subtext and innuendos come out on paper as well as I hope they do. Hope you enjoyed it anyway! And to all of those who've reviewed and encouraged, you rock! Kisses for you! Thanks! :)**

**Junichiblue**


	12. Chapter 12

**This was where it all started. The first scene I wrote for this story. :)**

**I am nervous about it, because I want it to be fun and original, and despite the fact that it's complete tripe, I hope it feels authentic, like you're watching the game. So, here goes nothing... o.o**

**If you like to listen to music in stories as you read, you may want to pull up Metallica's, Enter Sandman.**

* * *

**CHAPTER 12**

No one.

Not the team. Not the fans. Not the officials.

No one could have anticipated the events of the third period.

Outside Sokyoku Hill Arena, nestled in the heart of Seireitei, on a crisp, dark Saturday night in December, row after row of empty vehicles sat in frozen silence. A few die-hard smokers huddled by the entrance ways, the red glow of their cigarettes bright but short as they hurried to return to their seats. Security guards paced the lot with lazy steps and heavy flashlights. Though the breeze from the afternoon still picked up a stray bit of garbage and played it with idle hands across the grounds, the air was infused with that sense of peaceful solitude that only comes at night.

But inside...

It was a real shit show.

A Grimmjow-Ichigo extravaganza.

The ice gleamed like a marquee on Broadway beneath the bright lights of the massive stadium. Players from both teams poured back onto a surface that had been left scarred and pitted from hard stops and sharp turns. But now, after being shaved, scraped, washed and squeegeed by two Zambonis, the ice looked clean and untouched.

To an optimist, it may have looked like a fresh start, but the Soul Reaper's returned with a forced sense of hope.

The wintery battle grounds glistened under the bright lights, reflecting team colours like a watery mirror. The Reaper's home turf was not yet touched by the blades of razor sharp skates in the third period. It was liquid smooth, but soon to be chopped up and scoured into a dull white surface, its appearance from afar, the texture of bleached bone.

**X X X**

Grimmjow's grudge against him was getting old.

Ichigo had tried to go about his business as much as possible, but he still felt the constant nip of the sexta's teeth at the tender skin of his heels. If Grimmjow hated Ichigo so fucking much, then why wouldn't he just leave him the hell alone? Why did he have to push so hard at the teetering edge of Ichigo's resolve to play nice? Ichigo had been raised to play with sportsman-like conduct. He'd fight to protect himself or his teammates in a pinch, but never go looking for it, never betray his morals and seek out revenge. He still believed in that.

Ichigo watched the players on the ice scramble for the puck as they passed by the bench like a rushing current. As he tracked the play to the far end, his eyes couldn't help but find their way back to an angular jaw, smooth, straight nose, and large, hard, predatory eyes that flickered with excitement and hunger.

Ichigo could almost hear the bluenet's heart jumping in anticipation as his upper lip twitched and his eyes fixated onto another player who had just committed some kind of atrocity. A dog waiting to be unleashed. No shadow gathered itself beneath the subtle plane of his cheekbones, but his appearance remained rugged and rabid. It was all in the eyes. All in the face.

The face of the man who'd tried to pick a fight with him, not once, but twice tonight.

If Ichigo had come to just one safe conclusion today, it was this: the man had diagnosable psychological problems. And what a waste.

Physically at the top of the gene pool, he had so much going for him; his potential as player, as a friend, as a lover. And yet, he abused it all.

It wasn't any of Ichigo's business what Grimmjow chose to throw away, but somehow, it had become his problem. Just what was so special about Ichigo? Why was there so much animosity directed at him? Teammates disagreed all the time. You didn't get twenty-some testosterone-fuelled men together in a rink, outfit them with armour, hand them blades and sticks, tell them they _had to win_... and expect things to run smoothly.

Grimmjow argued with the other guys on the team like anybody else. Ichigo though... Grimmjow seemed to have reserved a special place of loathing for him. And damn himself for letting it get to him. Grimmjow was living rent free inside his head, and no amount of concentration was going to evict him.

**X X X**

Old? Retired? Better off without him?

Everything that had come out of the orangette's mouth had served to drive the roots of Grimmjow's hate a little deeper into the ground. But at the moment, the slams weren't the thing he was fixated on.

At some point in their argument, Ichigo had been harping like some fucking mother-hen about Grimmjow's bruises. Of all things.

That unwanted attention hadn't even registered until Grimmjow was back out on the bench and waiting for the starting line to set the tone for the third period, hopefully in their favour.

Now he was just confused. Ichigo hated his guts, and damned if Grimmjow hadn't made sure of it. Not gonna last? Where in the fuck did he get off? Why did he bother to bring up Grimmjow's health? He already had a mother. And she already fussed over him in her own masterful way.

A tight little snort left Grimmjow. Woman had an accomplished hand at packing bags to send along with him on his guilt trips whenever he showed up at her home looking like he'd been mauled by a meat grinder. Which was pretty often. His pa never did that. The old man would just drop one meaty hand onto Grimmjow's head, rifle Grimmjow's hair and tell him 'Gear down big rig. Just remember to have some fun.'

Grimmjow's jaw muscles tightened and he twice blinked hard against the chill of the air before the dampness was gone. _That_ was a subject that wasn't going to see the light of day for as long as Grimmjow could contain it.

Almost without his consent, his attention found its way onto the face of his foe, and his breathing quickened, riled that Ichigo had managed to drag up such a sore subject. Whether he had or not, was mute. He was getting blamed for this anyway. Grimmjow mentally tossed the offence onto the roaring bonfire at his core and watched as it rose sky high, sparking and reaching with wild twitching fingers into black starless skies.

His only refuge had been the ice. A place for rage as old as faded memories and as fresh as new wounds to sluice through the openings of a haphazard barricade in a semi-controlled release. And now, everywhere he turned, he met either lethal sarcasm or misguided concern. When did hockey get to be so fucking confusing? The sexta let his eyes slide shut and a long breath escape from shuddering lungs.

When all the air was gone, azure eyes popped open and resumed their scan of the ice and its living, breathing contents.

Cold and unaffected.

**X X X**

"Ahhh, goddammit! Sonofa...!" The coach screamed at no one in particular as the Reaper's gave up yet another goal. That made it six to two, and they were only seven minutes into the third.

Ichigo's line had already done two short shifts and they were up again.

"Where the fuck was our defence? Does anybody around here know how to play hockey?" A rattled bass boomed from somewhere beyond the forward's left shoulder. "Get out and there and get us some goddamn points!"

Ichigo growled under his breath. He'd had enough of insults tonight.

It was with no sense of pleasure that Ichigo climbed over the bench and dumped himself back into the fray. At best, it got him away from the cursing, spitting man who had been stalking red-faced and ox-breathed behind the players for most of the game.

He didn't blame the guy for being upset. The man was under a lot of pressure, and Ichigo for sure wasn't helping. But he had to question his style. He'd become a little abusive as the game had carried on. Ichigo knew the stakes were different here, but regardless, in his opinion, Urahara was by far a better coach.

He skated out to centre ice with the weight of a hundred missed goals on his shoulders. Grimmjow glared at him. Ichigo glared right back. Their fight, interrupted and unresolved, bubbled back to the surface, and Ichigo gripped his stick a little harder.

It was when his mind reached Grimmjow's suggestion to go back to the minors and he found that it almost sounded like a teasing proposition, that he knew the pressure was getting to him.

**X X X**

Ichigo took a shot off the draw. It hit the post and was scooped up by the Ryoka's defence man, who passed it behind the net to his teammate. The Reaper's defence men pulled back as the Ryoka's surged forward into Reaper territory. Ichigo took a run at the player, skimming past one of his own and narrowly missing a hip check from one of his rivals.

The player dumped the puck just wide of the Reaper's net. Renji was alert and redirected it with the edge of his stick. The puck landed in the hands of Ikkaku Madarame, who slapped it away as he was rushed by a Ryoka offence man. It skipped across the ice and landed on Ichigo's waiting stick. That made him a target. Ichigo heard Grimmjow call for the puck just as he took a solid hit into the boards which left him on his knees, but otherwise fine.

The puck was gone again. Grimmjow cursed at him. It wasn't a surprise. Grimmjow was going on and on like a colicky baby, and Ichigo could feel the growing buzz of anger, like an approaching swarm of bees. Ichigo grunted, heaved himself up, and threw himself back into the play.

Ichigo rushed into the Ryoka's zone as the play continued, passing by Grimmjow who was digging the puck out from between two player's legs. A moment later, Ichigo twisted his head and ducked as Grimmjow turned and fired the puck a mile wide of the net, but far too close to him as it ticked off his visor.

The play continued but a cold stone sank in his gut as he realized how close that had been. Getting hit with a puck was like taking a giant, frozen, rubber bullet. If you caught one in the head, it could break your jaw or knock you clean out of this world.

He couldn't say for sure if it had been on purpose, but he couldn't _not_ say it either. Grimmjow was being down right belligerent today.

The black disc visited every stick on the ice as the players battled back and forth without incident. The crowd hummed and awed, but stayed relatively mellow. Above the noise, the occasional whistle from the crowd blended in with sharp calls across the ice as players communicated with each other, the clatter of sticks on the hard surface, and the rattling sound of the boards giving way as players were thrown against them. Both teams had taken weak shots at the goalies but they hadn't been able to make anything happen. It had become a game of follow the bouncing puck.

Then they were defending once again, players crisscrossing the ice as they all tried to get a piece of the puck. Grimmjow jimmied the puck loose from a large Ryoka player who he'd pinned against the boards, then spun around as an elbow rose to greet him in the jaw. The officials didn't see it, and Grimmjow didn't care. He had the puck.

Then he didn't.

Ichigo had flashed by and scooped it up with a long reach, and passed it off to Shiro who was yelling that _he was open_ from the other side of the net. Shiro's attempt was deflected by the goalie's pads, but Ichigo caught the rebound and tried again.

Grimmjow was spitting acid. The muscles in his chest were squeezing themselves together like shrink wrap under a heat gun.

"Greedy fuck!" he snapped, as he rushed to reposition himself for the rebound he knew was coming. Ichigo had the puck, so... you know.

Grimmjow's curse at his back made Ichigo wince in anger. The puck skimmed just over the net, hit the glass, and was batted out of the air by a Ryoka player before being sent down the ice.

Ichigo swore out loud. The play had turned once again. Captain congeniality was in fine form. And Ichigo was aching to collapse on the bench. This was becoming the longest shift in history. In reality, it had been less than a two minutes.

With a collective sigh, the Reaper's rushed down the ice and regrouped to defend their end. The stalemate was beginning to agitate both teams and the play was getting rougher. Ichigo played bumper cars with with a Ryoka player and was upended along the boards in the neutral zone. He shook his head and panted as he righted himself.

Everybody seemed to pile into the end zone as if the rink had been tipped on its end. Shiro tried to clear it, but it was picked up by a Ryoka player at the blue line who faked a shot then chipped it back to another player right behind him. The goal was to screen the shot so Renji couldn't see it coming. The crack of a slap shot echoed, but again Renji saved it.

The fans cheered. They weren't winning, but they were holding their own for now. And after five goals, it was the best Renji had looked all night.

The muted cries of two players were drowned out by the din of the crowd. Grimmjow had circled back, but not quite in time to stop the shot. Instead, he had thrown a clean hit, just a bump, which had knocked the two Ryoka player's on their ass. He barely spared the domino-ed pair a dark scowl.

When he looked up, his eyes flashed with hunger. The deflected puck was chipped out of the corner and driven down the ice, right to him. He caught it with the edge of his stick and spun around. He was at the edge of the neutral zone and the puck was his.

It happened fast. Back on his feet in the neutral zone, Ichigo paralleled the sexta as they both raced down the ice. He cut in front of a fast moving Ryoka, then shoved him hard enough to show him to his seat, to give Grimmjow the break he needed. With two teams hot on their heels, they had about two seconds to take advantage of their breakaway.

The goalie dropped into a tight defensive stance as he backed into his crease, limiting the space they had to shoot at as best he could. He watched the blue-haired Reaper skate towards him at break-neck speed, but his eyes snapped nervously to his right. Kurosaki Ichigo was coming. And until recently, he'd had a reputation for being deadly accurate. The kid might be off his game, but the goalie couldn't afford to take that chance. Though the sexta was the one with the puck, the goalie kept his attention divided between the two oncoming players.

Grimmjow twisted his wrist and snapped the blade of his stick upward, taking the shot as he flew at the net, hoping to sneak it between the Ryoka's distracted goalkeeper and the post, but the puck hit the steel bar and bounced erratically to the right of the bluenet and skipped towards the corner.

He was coming in too hot to turn right in time without hitting the boards. So, Grimmjow cut left, swinging behind the net, his blades catching hard into the ice surface and nearly tripping him up as he tried to jam on the brakes. He was looking back over his shoulder, hoping to retrieve the puck, or at least get himself back into the play. The other players were already converging on the Ryoka's patch of ice, and Grimmjow only had seconds left before he had to hit the bench.

He was ticked now and breathing hard. It was personal. That had been so fucking close.

Ichigo skimmed along the boards as he passed behind the net as well, eyes locked on the wayward puck. He didn't think Grimmjow was going to skirt so far behind the net after taking that shot, but the sexta did, and Ichigo couldn't quite stop himself in time.

Like all good movie moments, there was the briefest point in time where brown eyes locked with blue before their shoulders caught hard enough to be heard. They slammed into one another, the impact dropping both players in a cataclysmic collision.

Ichigo fell with a hard grunt, and Grimmjow went down with a voluble screech of indignation.

The crowd _oohed_ in sympathy at the on-ice collision behind the net as the play carried on around the two fallen soldiers. The fan's faces pinched in discomfort. They could almost feel the _pain_ of the impact as much as the embarrassment.

The two players were both slow to get up, both wishing they could turn back time for a do-over instead of having to live down the humiliation of taking out their own player in front of most of North America.

Unusual? Not really. Embarrassing? You betcha.

Grimmjow was incensed as he tried to shake off the other player. It wasn't enough for Ichigo to argue and complain and be a general pain in Grimmjow's ass. Now he had to tie him up and physically keep him from playing too?

"Jesus Christ, Kurosaki! If you're not gonna help, get off the ice!" Grimmjow snapped as he worked to disentangle himself from number fifteen, teeth gnashing together.

Ichigo's own teeth rattled, and he nipped at the end of his tongue while he tried to rise to one knee. Grimmjow was violently yanking his skate blade away from Ichigo's own blade where they had somehow managed to hook. Ichigo's laces had been sliced in the fall, and a rogue loop had tangled around Grimmjow's blade. And now the bluenet was kicking and pulling with absolutely no care for its affect on the younger player. The action caused Ichigo to tumble back down from one knee and land against the bluenet once more.

As Ichigo fell forward, he landed with his hands on Grimmjow's chest, narrowly avoiding hitting the bluenet's face with his own. Ocean blue eyes drew wide with surprise as Ichigo's scarlet face stopped short a mere inch from his, then suddenly pulled away.

Ichigo couldn't get himself away fast enough. Grimmjow was such an idiot. Ichigo _had_ been helping him, despite what a dick he'd been. And now he was being an even bigger dick. He was dragging out this embarrassing scenario in front the nation on purpose, and Ichigo was ready to blow his stack.

"Why don't you watch where you're going, you dick!" Ichigo kicked out wildly as he desperately tried to yank himself free. "You suck at this!"

"You aughta know, you cock sucker!" Grimmjow shot back, furious. Wait. Had he just insulted Ichigo or himself? He couldn't think. Ichigo was squirming and writhing on top of him like a one-legged prostitute.

"Fuck you! Maybe if you tried using your stick to aim the puck instead of just flailing it around you could get us a goal and we wouldn't..." the orangette groused back. The rest of his words were muffled in the rumpled folds of Grimmjow's sweaty jersey as he face-planted against the bluenet's chest. Ichigo growled as he attempted to haul himself back onto his skates, using Grimmjow's chest and stomach to push himself roughly away from the blue-haired menace.

Frankly, Ichigo was beginning to panic. Their skates were hooked, Ichigo's stick was pinned beneath Grimmjow, and Grimmjow's stick was... Was that Grimmjow's stick?! Ichigo jerked back. The more they moved, the tighter their entanglement, and the more compromising their situation seemed to become. As Ichigo struggled to rise, his glove slid down the bigger man's wall of muscle, resting low against his navel. Ichigo pushed off against the padding that rose up and protected most of Grimmjow's stomach.

The hard shove pulled a low, alarming sound from the fallen sexta, much higher in pitch than he should have produced given the situation. Grimmjow hoped it sounded like pained grunt to Ichigo. It was definitely not a whine.

"_Guhh_... Maybe if you quit hoggin' the fuckin' thing once in a while I _would_, you selfish fuck!" Grimmjow spat, as he too finally up-righted himself, staggering before he found his legs and skated away, retreating to the side of the net.

"Why don't you just go hit someone, Jaegerjaquez?" Ichigo snapped from the opposite side of the goal crease, face beginning to redden further. "It's all your good at!"

He didn't really mean it, but he didn't regret it. Words were just sticks and stones to throw. Ichigo couldn't even hear the crowd cheering on the Reapers, who were desperately holding their own at the other end, beyond the blood river now thrumming in his ears. In truth, it had been less than fifteen seconds since their collision, but it felt like this conversation had been going on for weeks.

Why was that? Oh, right. Because it had.

As both men circled around to the front of the goal crease, the Ryoka goalie's eyes stayed fixed on the play that had moved to the far end of the ice. Ichigo and Grimmjow stopped on either side of the goal crease, their sudden absence from the game leaving the remaining Reapers back in their own zone, trying to defend themselves while stuck in a dangerous five on three disadvantage.

"You wanna find out first-fucking-hand how good I am, asshole?" Grimmjow yelled back.

The goalie's attention finally strayed from the game as the two men moved to meet each other in front of the net, effectively blocking his view, postures stiff and intimidating, teeth bared like slavering dogs trapped behind a wire fence.

The Ryoka's goalie wasn't the only one to become entranced with the heated interaction going on behind the play. While the Reaper's fought valiantly to defend their zone with only three men, the attention of the crowd began to waiver, one by one, heads turning towards the bizarre scene. While the fans were left to wonder and murmur amongst themselves, the announcers did their best to explain the growing situation to the viewers at home.

"_And... what is this? What is going on behind the play?"_

"_Number 15, Kurosaki and number 6, Jaegerjaquez seem to have stalled in front of the opposing team's net while the play carries on without them."_

"_They're having what appears to be a heated exchange of words. They're both well out of position and the play has moved into their defensive zone."_

"_What on earth are they doing? It's like they've forgotten they're in the middle of a hockey game!"_

"Oh, I've _seen_ how _good_ you are, Jaegerjaquez!" Ichigo sneered, gesturing towards the net. "We'd be better off if you'd just give it up and pass off the puck to someone who knows how to shoot it."

Grimmjow winced at the dig, the small element of truth in it making it sting like it was intended. But Grimmjow's bad streak of luck boiled down solely to the orangette's beef with him, and he pushed forward, seething, and looming over the smaller player, lashing back with equal intensity.

"And I suppose you think that _someone _should be you? Like you've been doing _anything_ worthwhile for this team!" Grimmjow's gloved hand was up in front of Ichigo's face, jabbing at the empty air, but Ichigo barely flinched, even when the glove came down... "Yer nothin' but a distraction! The only reason I ain't scoring is 'cause _you're_ always in the way, you cocksucker!" ...and drove into his shoulder, pushing him back.

The Ryoka's goalie was standing up straight now, his stick hanging forgotten in his glove, his masked head darting back and forth as he tried to follow the barrage of words that were being fired off in a free-for-all of machine gun spray in front of him.

"What a load of crap!" Ichigo's body jerked forward, reclaiming his lost ground, the physical contact setting a five alarm blaze inside of him. "You couldn't find the net with a map and directions!" he yelled, his left arm swinging up to point towards the hapless goalie, before returning the favour and jabbing Grimmjow in the chest with his own gloved hand. "Quit blaming other people for your own shortcomings, you jackass!"

Ichigo glared up at the taller man, every muscle tensed and ready for a scrap. His whole body was just aching to throw a solid punch right between those hatefully blue eyes, but he didn't need to. Ichigo's words had the same effect, and they found their target.

_Quit blaming other people for your own shortcomings._

"THE FUCK YOU SAY TO ME, YOU LITTLE SHIT?" Grimmjow roared, every muscle coiled so tight it burned. He wouldn't lose it. He wouldn't give up his control so easily.

"I SAID, YOUR MOM SHOULDA SWALLOWED YOU!" Ichigo bellowed back.

It was probably one of the worst things he'd ever said to anyone in his entire life.

But Ichigo was well and truly derailed. And the thought that if his family could hear him now, they would probably disown him, didn't even enter his mind.

Grimmjow's jaw dropped open and hung suspended in the air for one long second as his mind completely and irreparably short circuited. He couldn't believe what Kurosaki Ichigo had just said to him. A man he fought to protect.

How he'd just talked about his ma like that.

How he'd basically just told Grimmjow he shouldn't exist.

Ichigo's heart was hammering out a war cry, and he braced himself as he watched Grimmjow's eyes go wild, the maddened look in them as revealing as a spotlight. Time slowed to a crawl, and it was with a strange sense of fascination and regret that he watched the emotional carnage play out across the other man's face. He couldn't possibly fully understand what was going on behind those eyes, but he knew one thing for damn sure.

Ichigo had just swanned dived across the line. And the sexta had just come unglued.

Then the moment was over, and so was Grimmjow's restraint.

Grimmjow's eyes lit up with rage, bursting into a blue inferno. Every angle of his face, from the sharply arrowed eyebrows, to the twin fish-hooked upper lip, was radiating pure malice. All at once, all of the anger that had compressed inside the bluenet exploded outward.

It stunned Ichigo for a split second. The rush of rage was like watching the universe being birthed, a formless mass of power ripping outward from a single point in space.

And every ounce of that fear inspiring attention was focused solely on Ichigo. It was absolutely captivating.

"THAT'S IT!" Grimmjow exploded. "DROP'EM, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!"

Grimmjow didn't realize how much he'd truly been longing to just pound Kurosaki into oblivion until this moment. It took every last scrap of mental power for him to not just lunge at the smaller man and beat his body into and unrecognizable mess of broken bones and spilled blood.

In fact, if you asked Grimmjow, he would insist that he was being quite polite about the whole thing. Grimmjow could have sucker-punched Ichigo with a quick cheap shot to the face. And that would have been it. Lights out.

But despite the orangette's completely jaundiced opinion of Grimmjow, he did in fact have a moral code. And even as he seethed at number fifteen through a blood red rage, if they _were_ going to fight, Grimmjow wanted to win it fair and square. With Ichigo, it mattered. He had to win it clean or there would be no point.

And he would. Oh, he would.

It would be no contest. He'd seen Ichigo fight, and he could certainly hold his own, but he was tangling with Grimmjow now. Ichigo was delusional if he thought he could win against the sexta. He was gonna bring the pain to Kurosaki, and then he was gonna make him eat it.

Both players' sticks clattered to the ice.

The world around them had all but disappeared. It was just the two of them.

The game. The arena. The crowd. All of it had faded to a distant whisper, driven by madness into the blurred edges of their periphery.

They shook off their gloves in one sharp motion as they lunged at one another, fists already curled and flying like bullets, each man seeking a way through the other's defences, straining to be the first to inflict damage, and hoping for blood.

In an instant, the announcers were out of their seats, along with every single fan and player in the entire building. The only man who didn't _seem_ affected was the Soul Reaper's coach, his expression composed and unreadable. The crowd barely noticed the goal that finally slipped through the Soul Reapers' defence just as whistles began to blow frantically in a shrill command to end the play.

The arena's JD wasted no time filling the huge space with the primal roar of the heavy, rolling drumbeat of Metallica's, Enter Sandman, skillfully adding to the feeling of burgeoning blood lust by jumping straight into the ominous drums that made way for the chilling chorus.

_**Say your prayers little one  
Don't forget my son to include everyone  
I tuck you in, warm within**_

_**Keep you free from sin 'til the sandman he comes  
**_

The whole arena was in an uproar, their frenzied screams of excitement blending together with the thundering music to reach near deafening levels. They were fuelled by passion... and perhaps just a little bit of beer.

_**Sleep with one eye open  
Gripping your pillow tight**_

_**Exit light**_  
_**Enter night**_  
_**Take my hand**_  
_**We're off to never never-land**_

As if the two enraged players were following its lead, number six and number fifteen threw punch after devastating punch. The music seemed to conduct their movements. They grabbed and pulled at each others jerseys, blue and black material secure and twisted inside white knuckled fists, using the contact for leverage, keeping each other locked in battle.

Every punch was an insult, a retort, a statement.

_Challenge me, and I will knock you down._

Grimmjow reeled back, arm coiling then snapping forward, every jab seeking out the places where it would hurt the most. Ichigo's head snapped to the side, and he twisted away as he took a blow to the jaw, stars jumping in front of his vision. The next one caught him on the ear, and even while he heard as much as felt the dampened punch rattle through his skull, he was already swinging back with his own answering hay-maker.

While the unbelieving crowd inside the Sokyoku Hill arena looked on in thrilled amazement, the fans at home and in the bars watched the spectacle unfold with varied looks of disbelief and awe as the two announcers excitedly gave the play by play.

"_Holy cow! In all my years, I've never seen anything like this. They're going at it!"_

"_Whoa! You havin' fun yet?!"_

"_Unbelievable! The mittens are off! And two players from the same team are fighting out their shift!"_

Grimmjow's fist collided with parts of Ichigo's body for what seemed like the hundredth time, and he cackled for the briefest moment before one of Ichigo's wiry little arms shot out and a fist slammed into his exposed forehead. Grimmjow returned the favour, even as blood leaked into his eye, finding Ichigo's temple with the hard edge of his large knuckles.

The best part was that Ichigo wasn't even defending himself. Neither of them were. They were both just swinging, leaving themselves open. Just giving it all up for the chance to land that punch, that one good pop to the head that would drop their opponent.

Ichigo reeled from another well placed fist. His cheek and temple were probably throbbing already, but he didn't stop coming. He was matching Grimmjow blow for blow. It all translated into his rage bent mind as something pleasurable, all sweaty skin and thrilling pain, the feel of his knuckles digging against bone and skin. He could taste Kurosaki in his mouth, the younger man's sweat mixed with his own blood where Ichigo's fist had grazed him, sliding against his split lip as Grimmjow intercepted his arm.

Even through their mutual haze of anger, Grimmjow could feel his dick getting hard. And if Ichigo was enjoying himself as much Grimmjow knew he was, Ichigo was every bit as excited as him. Grimmjow's breaths were lashed out through sharp, red and white teeth framed by a wide, angry snarl.

Almost a grin.

Every hit he landed was a little bit of Grimmjow's seed spilled across Ichigo's pristine skin. It didn't really do anything to release all that anger, but at least it came with a fun buzz.

"_Nobody knows what sparked it, but it' looks like the notorious sexta, Jaegerjaquez, and newcomer, Kurosaki have found a reason to disagree!"_

"_And what a fight! I mean they are really wailing on each other!"_

"_Jaegerjaquez is a strong man. Kurosaki is a battler. We've seen that all season long."_

"_Now Jaegerjaquez is trying to yank Kurosaki's jersey off..."_

"_Just like a kid on Christmas morning, he's tearing through Kurosaki's jersey like cheap wrapping paper!"_

"_The linesmen are wondering if it's a good idea to jump in."_

"_I'd say no! The refs aren't even going to touch this one. They're just gonna let'em go."_

"_Well, what are you going to do? There has to be some extremely bad blood there for two teammates to start fighting in the middle... whoa!... Look at that left hook!_

"_Ooh! That one stung!"_

"_Kurosaki is really giving it to Jaegerjaquez. One, two, three times to the face!"_

"_Well he has to be fast, doesn't he, if he wants to avoid that infamous devastating right uppercut of Jaegerja... oooh... he ducked when he should have weaved, and number fifteen goes down in a heap, all tangled up and taking number six with him. And the refs are all over that!"_

"_There's blood on the ice tonight folks and it's not what you would expect. What a mess! What a fight! What a day in hockey!"_

"_The fans are beside themselves!"_

"_Well so am I, Kent. So am I!"_

"_This is unheard of. I mean, two players from the same team fighting at training camp, sure."_

"_It's not uncommon for fights to break out during practice. When you spend so much time together, travelling, eating and sleeping together. Confrontations are the norm. But during a game?"_

"_Well, I hope those two boys have gotten it out of their system because they are definitely out of this game."_

"_They may be down, but they're not out. They're still grappling on the ice beneath a dog pile of officials. It's taking all three referees to peel those two boys apart."_

"_Absolutely unbelievable. Now the officials are escorting both men separately off the ice."_

"_Seems to me like it's a bad idea to send them to the same locker room. I mean look at them. Covered in blood and they're still chirping at one another."_

"_Yup. Don't read their lips, kids."_

"_I think Jaegerjaquez just said 'I love you'. And Kurosaki just saluted."_

"_'You're number one', he said. Oh my. Neither of them appears to be out of gas. I'd bet my first born that if those officials weren't between them right now they'd just go right back at it."_

"_No doubt about it. Well, the Reaper's coach is going to have some words for those two after this game is over. That's for sure."_

"_Absolutely. I'd be afraid to be a fly on the wall for that one."_

"_I don't think you'd need to be a fly on the wall to hear that one!"_

"_I think you're right!"_

"_Well folks. Just ten minutes remaining in the third. Five - two... no... pardon... six - two for the Ryokas.. And if you're just tuning in, you will definitely not want to miss the post game wrap up."_

"_No worries if you do though. This is going to make every highlight reel for about a decade."_

"_Just in time for the holidays. Those are two boys who are definitely getting coal in their stockings this year!"_

**X X X**

Three security guards filled the space between the two bloodied players.

They stood at opposite ends of the locker room as they stripped off the remnants of their equipment quickly and efficiently. It took less time than usual to peel out of their uniforms since both men had managed to help each other out of a good portion of it already during their on-ice scuffle. In fact, by the time they were done, they had both left the ice shirtless, much to the appreciation of the ladies in their audience, and perhaps some of the males as well. Their sought after physiques were covered only in a sheen of sweat, blood splatter and smears, and a handful of bruises.

Both players kept their eyes fixed on the task at hand, and their backs stayed turned to one another. Just one look would be enough to set them off again, and they both knew it. And enough damage had already been done for one night.

By the time they'd exposed their damaged bodies to the air and changed into their street clothes, their tempers had cooled just enough for reason and logic to begin to rear its head. And as reality started to sink back in, to be honest, both men were beginning to wonder what the hell had actually happened.

Grimmjow sent a surreptitious glance towards his rival. Ichigo looked like he'd been through a rusty propeller. The throbbing sting from the cut on the bridge of his nose told Grimmjow he probably didn't look much better.

In less than twenty minutes, they were both leaning silently against their respective lockers, arms crossed, each man glaring at the far wall.

They hadn't showered. There was no way _that one_ was going to fly. Ichigo was by far the most presentable of the two. He had managed to use the sink to rinse away the blood on his face, but Grimmjow had just left it there. He always wore his battle scars without remorse. Ichigo had a feeling it served as more of a reminder than anything; that he owed someone something. Ichigo slid a sidelong look at the blue-haired player. He looked like shit. Had Ichigo really done all that?

Both men glanced up when the team began pouring into the locker room. Except for the clunking of skates and sticks, and the rustling of heavy gear, the silence was deafening.

"Way to go, ass holes." The team's red-haired goalie spoke for the whole team as soon as he entered the room. Grimmjow sneered and huffed quietly, while Ichigo cringed internally. If the man who had let in five relatively easy shots felt mighty enough to put them down, then they really were no better than the nasty hairy shit that got stuck in the drain.

Moments later, the coach entered the locker room like a tropical storm, and the other players quickly shuffled out of the way, knowing that if they didn't, he would have simply cut a swath through them.

"Kurosaki! Jaegerjaquez! Get your GOD DAMN asses on this bench!"

Ichigo was mortified. Not only were they going to be read the riot act, but it was going to be in front of the entire club. Ichigo grimaced and did his best not to actually scurry to the bench. He'd never seen the coach, (or anyone outside of Grimmjow), this angry in his entire life. The man's face was as red as a tomato, and the large veins of his neck were sticking out and pulsing in a most unhealthy manner.

The bench vibrated as Grimmjow sauntered over then dropped himself heavily right next to Ichigo, forearms resting across his legs as he hunched forward, assuming the position and preparing to be chewed out but good.

Neither man was disappointed.

"ARE YOU TWO **INSANE**?! What in the fucking hell was **THAT**?! I aught' to kick both your asses off my TEAM for that stupid STUNT!"

"Sorry... I..." Ichigo squirmed like a hooked worm as he glanced up at the extremely distraught man who was about five... four... three... seconds away from having a stress induced coronary, if the bulging veins in his bright red neck were any indication. Ichigo didn't get to finish his apology as the enraged man instantly began shouting like a bullhorn over his muted reply.

"DON'T YOU **'**_**SORRY**_**'** ME, KUROSAKI! Do you have any IDEA what kind of **DAMAGE** you two just caused to the reputation of this team?! To **MY** REPUTATION?!"

The distraught coach threw his arms in the air as if he was about to pull God himself down off his perch, and began pacing back and forth as he ran one large, gnarled hand through what was left of his formerly lustrous, grey mottled hair. Then he rounded on the two delinquent Reapers and bellowed at them from a mere foot away, flecks of spittle flying through the air and littering their relatively composed faces.

"We're going to be the laughing stock of hockey because of you two **IDIOTS**!" he shrieked.

His eyes were comically wide in his head, and for his own part, Ichigo had to force down a completely inappropriate surge of laughter.

He was in shit. This was _not_ funny.

"What the hell is WRONG with you two?!" The man practically screamed his question.

"Sorry," Ichigo repeated softly. He knew it was pointless to apologize but he couldn't help himself. It just seemed natural to fill in the blank at this point.

"Sorry," Grimmjow muttered, shadowed blue eyes briefly tearing from the floor to chance a look at their coach, the subdued bluenet saying the word like he was choking on a chicken bone.

"Sorry," the coach repeated bitterly. His voice had dropped to something almost devoid of emotion."Well, that's just great. Thanks for that."

Nobody dared move in the locker room as a few tense seconds of silence passed while the coach regarded his two unruly players as if he were contemplating the shit stuck to the bottom of his shoes. Ichigo jumped in his seat as the man gave a choleric snort and continued, voice teaming with anger once again.

"**YOU THINK **_**SORRY**_ **COVERS THIS?"**

Grimmjow shrugged, but didn't say anything else. He didn't dare. He knew better. It didn't matter what either of them said. It would only add more fuel to their coach's already raging fire. All they could do was wait out the tirade and hope they could get out of the building without being crushed under the avalanche of reporters that were no doubt buzzing outside the locker rooms walls and lurking at every exit by now.

And the man was right. Now that his temper had calmed somewhat, and Grimmjow's brain cells were functioning in something vaguely resembling that of a human's again, it was embarrassing. Humiliating. Even for Grimmjow who rarely felt embarrassed about anything.

It wasn't the fact that he had fought his own team mate that irked him. It was how easily he had lost his composure and become enraged to the point of near madness. One minute of locking horns with the orangette, and he'd bridged the gap between anger and blind insanity. Grimmjow had always maintained a degree of control. If he was angry it was because he damn well wanted to be. What the hell was it about Kurosaki that made him lose his shit so profoundly?

Fights among players were actually more common than most of the public would realize. But they usually happened during practice and at training camps, where players would sometimes but heads and argue. Confrontations were normal, but on rare occasions the heated words escalated into brief physical altercations as the players struggled to adjust their playing styles and find a compromise so that the team could work together as a unit.

Fights happened. But never during a game. They were supposed to be professionals.

"You know what." The sound of air being compressed rapidly through a tight, obstructed passage filled the room as the coach hauled in a breath through his nose, then expelled it.

"You're both suspended. I don't wanna see either of your faces here for the next two games. Not even practice." The man leaned forward, wagging his crooked finger in front of matted blue and spiky orange locks.

"If either one of you sets foot near this arena before Christmas, I will personally have you arrested."

_Suspended. _Grimmjow's eyebrows jumped in response while his breath hitched in his throat. Almost instantly his head snapped to the side and he threw a baleful eye towards his orange-haired team mate

_And arrest__ed? _Like he'd never hear _that_ before. But coming from his own coach?

This was all Kurosaki's fault.

Ichigo's mouth fell open. Suspended? Him? His sterling reputation was being dragged down inch by inch by the blue Hessian. Okay, maybe sterling was a bit far fetched, but still. He met the dirty, cobalt glare with a slow, fiery burn of his own. Grimmjow was going to pay dearly.

He was already imaging the things he was going to do to Grimmjow, within the confines of the law of course, but Ichigo's thoughts were cut short. The coach wasn't done yet.

"Oh, do I have your attention?" he puffed.

At the coach's stiff question, both player's looked away. They broke eye contact, partly in disgust, but also because if they didn't snap-to, the very angry man might start yelling again. And neither one wanted their mutual scolding to be extended any longer than it had to be.

"Good." The coach leaned in a little bit closer, and both men stiffened. "Not one foot before Christmas. And when you return, you'd better behave like you are the _best_ of the _best_ of friends."

The coach's bloodshot eyes darted between the two men again. His expression was dark, almost manic, and it gave Ichigo the willies. Even Grimmjow was eyeing him up and developing a subtle lean.

"Ichigo, if Grimmjow asks you to help him wipe his ass, you will do it and say 'Thank you, Grimmjow'!" He grinned, unamused but shark-like, eyes flashing with malevolence. "And Grimmjow, if Ichigo asks you to hold his dick while he pisses, you will do it with.. a... smile. Is. That. Clear?"

The hum of quiet amusement being poorly held at bay behind arms and hands filled the locker room, and two pairs of stunned eyes blinked back at the coach. The man wasn't kidding. He meant every word.

* * *

**X**

**Disclaimers: So, I hope that chapter was fun for you. I'm dog tired. I've watched so much hockey and stared so hard at this screen, my eyeballs have fallen out. And, don't think I came up with the announcers' talk all on my own. The announcer's comments are bits and pieces of actual things I've heard announcers say during games. They are the creative ones, not me. *salutes announcers everywhere* ^_^**

**Also, if you type in "Unbelievable Crazy Hockey Fight!" on You tube, you will see why I chose that song.**

**God I love hockey. :D**


	13. Chapter 13

**I didn't originally intend to write this chapter. I was only going to touch on some of these things in less detail. But I sat down and it just happened. JB**

* * *

**CHAPTER 13**

You would think that an outburst of such epic proportions would have been enough to jolt the two Soul Reaper's out of their feud and back into sanity.

Yes, you would think that.

And you would be wrong.

Two days past Christmas, the two rival teammates returned from their suspensions with equal amounts of hesitation and ill will.

Getting yelled at may have made the coach feel better, but it did little to erase months of built up frustration. Not that anyone in the know truly expected the two rival teammates to suddenly get along just because they'd had a scrap. The cork may have finally blown, but it was a fight neither man had won. The brutal blows and cutting insults had only served to briefly blow off some steam. And while their sensational fight had released a bit of pressure, the coach's harsh words afterwards had not been so effective as to permanently stifle the flames of their competition. There were just some problems that couldn't be fixed by yelling.

Now back in the arena, Ichigo and Grimmjow were as tense as ever around each other. But both men were determined not to be the one who screwed up next.

Ichigo took a calming breath before he entered the stadium for the first time in over a week. He greeted his teammates with as much normalcy as he could manage, and his teammates, for their part, were welcoming. Renji was nice enough to toss his crotch soaked towel in his face, and Shinji had taped to his 'locker' a picture of a very unattractive older woman having relations with a very eager mule. Ichigo couldn't help but smile a little as Shinji beamed wickedly at him from across the room. Nothing was really said, but that was enough. It was a bit of a relief for him, the guys welcoming him back so warmly after... the incident. Ichigo and Grimmjow had both had to deal with the press to some degree. And their teammates would have received a lot of unwanted attention from the press as well, reporters clamouring for their thoughts on the event and the state of the team and all.

Ichigo had wanted to crawl away and hide inside his own fetid hockey bag while he faced the excited reporters. And seeing himself stuttering, muttering and shrugging on the eleven o'clock news had been almost as much of a treat. Seeing himself in that situation was rough, yes, but when the scene skipped to the interview with the sexta, Ichigo felt his spine straighten and he'd jacked up the volume to see what the other man had said about him, well, about their fight. He'd felt mildly disappointed when Grimmjow had stuck to the script, half expecting the bluenet to go on a tirade about him. Ichigo had been pissed off, agitated, and polite but short with his words. Grimmjow seemed to have handled himself only slightly better, though his oceanic trench of a scowl could have cracked a camera lens.

Ichigo was a mess in front of the camera and a mess on the ice. But what a fight it had been. Ichigo's lack of control during that few minutes had done more to the people around him than he had been capable of grasping in the heat of the moment. Grimmjow had been the only one he'd seen. The only thing in the world. But outside of Grimmjow, the world was still waiting. And boy, did it have something to say.

Christmas for Ichigo hadn't been a disaster or anything, but it hadn't gone quite as well as he'd hoped.

Save for the elephant in the room, their Christmas morning ritual was unaffected. He'd shown up at his father's house early enough to greet his sisters with Christmas hugs and kisses as they trundled downstairs in their sweats. It was tradition. No one got properly dressed before gifts were opened. No longer living at home, Ichigo was dressed, of course. He had thrown on a white, knit turtleneck and was looking a sight healthier than the day before now that most of his shiner had faded, with the help of some concealer, a secret he would have denied to his dying breath had anyone noticed.

Both Yuzu and Karin had unwrapped their gifts from Ichigo with bright smiles that turned to stunned tears when they'd realized that their entire university tuitions were being paid for. It had been perfect, for a moment. But Ichigo had felt his smile pull down and his body sink deeper into the living room recliner when both of the girls had tried to refuse his generosity.

"Ichigo. We can't take this!" Yuzu had breathed, petite mouth drawn into an oh. "It's too much!"

"Yeah." Karin had added, thrusting the cheque back towards her brother with a stern look in her dark eyes. "You know we've both been working. Do you think we can't take care of ourselves?"

And an argument had ensued. The sound of a third gift being ripped open had barely registered with the duelling siblings. And then Isshin, as predicted, had pitched a fit, declaring Ichigo officially the man of the house, and himself just a housekeeper.

"A housekeeper?" Ichigo had turned and bellowed, practically jumping out of his chair. "You don't even cook, old man! Yuzu does all the cooking!"

Isshin had continued to bawl and feign disability, sliding from the couch into a boneless heap onto the living room floor. Until Ichigo had brained him. With his father silently seeing stars on the family room's tan carpet, the family feud had finally died down when Ichigo had straightened up and gathered himself and spoke in earnest.

"After all the support you guys have given me, you won't even let me give it back? " Ichigo had crossed his arms and scowled down at the trio. "This is yours too, you know."

He cut off the chorus of "Ichigo" before his family could get any further.

"I'm getting paid a lot for doing something I love. What's the point if I can't share it with the people who are important to me?"

A moment of silence followed. Then Yuzu had simply thrown herself at her older brother, wrapping her arms like a trap around his slender waist, while Karin had given him a look that he knew meant she was only accepting it because of his intentions. He smiled back at her. He loved his little sisters, and he would always help them any way he could.

It was, by far, a normal Christmas morning at the Kurosaki household. But his family was his family, and they didn't waste much time getting to the heart of the matter. That matter being Ichigo behaving like a crazed street thug in the middle of a hockey game. At least those were the words Karin had used to describe what she'd seen while she'd watched the game with her friends.

There had never been a face in the world that could shame Ichigo like the expressions his little sisters had for him that Christmas morning. And when Yuzu tried to explain herself, face crestfallen, Karin had nudged up to her, wrapping her arm around her shoulders to offer he support. Dammit. The girls had definitely practiced this routine. And Ichigo had still fallen for it.

"I've never seen you act like that before," Yuzu had said. "Isn't he supposed to be your friend?" Karin had nodded in agreement. Ichigo frowned.

"Teammates aren't always friends," was all he could say right then. Ichigo had a world of words to throw at them about that, but Yuzu was faster on the draw.

"It's just... it hurt to see, Ichi. You used to love hockey."

"I still love hockey, Yuzu," he argued, though he hardly felt it. "Things are different in this league. There's a lot more pressure..." Ichigo faded into a sigh. Was he making excuses? "Look. I'm not proud of it, okay? That guy..." Ichigo started to look for ways to sum up their problem quickly so he could just not have this conversation any longer,

"The sexta?" Yuzu asked.

"Yeah. The sexta." Ichigo mumbled. "Grimmjow is just... a really hard guy to work with."

"How is he hard?" Yuzu asked, face sweet with innocence. Ichigo felt his own cheeks begin to burn in response. He blinked a couple of times before he started to respond.

"He's... uhm..." Ichigo felt flushed, his body suddenly falling into the same rhythms it did when he was actually facing the Sexta. His blood was rushing warm beneath his skin and all he was trying to do was talk about the guy. He fought for words that wouldn't come while his sister waited with patient curiosity. What was he even trying to say now? A jumble of thoughts began to race through his mind, each one a description of some aspect about Grimmjow... most of them physical. The white turtleneck, he decided, was a terrible idea. His father must have cranked the heat. It was far too warm in the house for a sweater.

Thankfully, Karin cut in.

"It doesn't matter, Ichi, what he is." She folded her arms and faced him. "You're our big brother. And we'll always be proud of you... but that's not what our brother would do."

Ichigo had winced at that, the statement pulling him back to solid ground. The girls weren't going to cut him a break and there was no way he was going to sit there and explain it all to them. They didn't understand what it was like to be a rough and tumble guy, playing for big money in the NHL, but they still managed to land a solid blow to Ichigo's gut.

And it was seeing far too many of those lately.

His father had already gotten to him the night before, when the girls were out. Ichigo had walked into his childhood home and found Isshin leaning back in his seat in the kitchen, the newspaper in his hand propped open against the edge of the table. He'd greeted Ichigo and flashed him a healthy grin, but sobered the moment he took in his appearance. He didn't look very surprised, though. Nor did Ichigo expect that he should. His father watched every game Ichigo played, even if it meant recording it when he was on shift at the clinic.

Isshin's voice was stern, but taunting. He knew exactly what had happened and wasn't the least surprised to see Ichigo's faded shiner on Christmas eve.

"Ichigo," he'd said. "Son, you look like you lost a fight."

Ichigo couldn't help himself as he frowned at his father. But he'd been avoiding this since the game a week ago. He'd ignored a few calls from the media, looking to squeeze more drama from his embarrassing meltdown, and he had only returned his family's messages with short, non-descript texts. All in all, Ichigo had laid rather low, keeping to his apartment except to run errands or to keep up his training.

"I didn't lose."

Isshin's calm expression hardly wavered, and Ichigo sighed internally. He didn't know why he'd said that, because it really didn't matter.

"Things just got a little crazy. Can we just forget it? The media is already having a field day."

Isshin nodded to him and Ichigo took a seat across from his father and his five-day-old newspaper.

"Oh yes," Isshin said a little too brightly. "I've seen." He rattled the paper with flare and squinted hard at it before reading it aloud for Ichigo's benefit.

"'_They're passionate guys, that are... very, very frustrated..._' the article says."

"Dad..."

"'_Their teammates stood by and let them iron out their differences_...' the article says." Isshin's dark gaze travelled up from the paper, now laying on the table, and settled on Ichigo.

"It was just a fight..."

"That's not what I would call it, Ichigo. What was all that about?"

Ichigo crossed his arms, the small creases between his own eyes turning to deep ravines.

"He started it," Ichigo said stubbornly.

"Ichigo," Isshin warned. The orangette let his gaze lower to the table, hoping his father would drop it. The whistle of steam beckoned from across the kitchen, starting soft but growing more intense. But when Isshin just continued to stare at him, Ichigo pushed himself up from his seat, chair legs scraping across the floor as he stood.

"I can't stay. I'll see you tomorrow." Ichigo hadn't made it two steps before his father's voice broke his stride.

"Ichigo."

Isshin's heavy baritone came with the promise of trouble if Ichigo didn't stop. He turned back to face his father, petulant frown creasing his eyes, his inner five year old warring with the man he now was.

"Don't let things get out of hand. You're sisters didn't raise you to behave that way." Isshin's dark eyes were serious, despite his oddly worded statement. "And I expect more from you."

Ichigo's shoulders dropped a fraction as he sighed and avoided the steely gaze of his father.

"I know." He grabbed his jacket from the hook on the kitchen wall as he walked towards the door.

"Ichigo."

He stopped again, hands still on the lapels of the jacket he'd half shrugged into. He looked back to find that Isshin was once again leaning in his chair, paper stretched open, hiding most of the bottom half of his face. He wasn't even looking at Ichigo, but his eyes had fallen back to their usual relaxed pose.

"The girl's will be up at eight, and Yuzu's making pancakes. Don't be late."

**X X X**

Grimmjow's holidays had been less than special. To start with, getting away from the press had proved impossible, and he'd been forced to give them a statement just so he could leave the building. He couldn't even remember what he'd said, probably because it was what he'd been told to say by the coach. He wanted Grimmjow to play down the incident, pretend everything was fine. And the blood on his face; the coach had warned him to wash that off too. It would just give the reporters more sensationalistic snapshots for the papers.

None of the questions had really come as a surprise to the blue-haired enforcer. They were as standard as one would expect given the situation, until the end.

"Grimmjow. How do you feel about what happened tonight between you and Kurosaki Ichigo?"

Grimmjow squinted out into the shadowed faces of sports writers and journalists who'd waited and gathered to talk to the some of the Reapers in the locker room. The set of lights from some poorly adjusted camera was burning afterimages into his eyes, the glare leaving his pupils black pinpoints in a sea of powder blue.

"Turn that shit off. Yer blinding me," he snapped in one direction before responding to the journalist who'd asked the question. The light flickered off. "We had a disagreement that spilled into the game. That's all there is to it."

"What about the fight being a contributing factor towards the loss of the game?"

"It was unprofessional, and it ain't gonna happen again." _So get the fuck outta my face,_ he'd added in his head.

Grimmjow had opted to take his punishment first so he could get out of this mess and back to the peace of his apartment. Kurosaki had long since pushed out into the hallway where more reporters were lurking. The little sneak was just trying to bolt, but Grimmjow knew he couldn't have made a clean getaway. Which was good. If Grimmjow was stuck doing this shit, Kurosaki should suffer too.

"Word is you and Kurosaki can't stand each other."

Grimmjow had felt his lip pull into a derisive sneer. _What gave it away? _He let his eyes wander over the room as he answered the reporter.

"We clash from time to time. It's gonna happen."

"So, what sparked the fight?"

_Kurosaki's a jackass._ Grimmjow glared down at the reporter, jaw muscles tightening.

"He said spoon. I said fork." he deadpanned. The small mob of reporters chuckled. It wasn't the answer they wanted, but it still sounded good for a story. Another voice called out, and Grimmjow turned in time to get face full of flash bulb. He blinked hard and suppressed a growl.

"We've heard your coach has suspended you both for two games. Will he also be splitting your line up when you return?"

Grimmjow frowned. He hadn't even thought about that. And he suddenly didn't know _what_ he thought about that.

"You'll have to ask him," he replied, shrugging as he raised his chin and glanced over top the heads of the group, trying to scope out the easiest path towards the door. It was far too crowded in here. The air was getting hot. He could smell various aftershaves, hair products, and the scent of freshly polished leather shoes. And there wasn't anything good about any of it. In fact, he would rather take the strained silence that had settled over the room less than an hour ago. Maybe he really was messed up, because compared to this he'd actually found it quite... comfortable.

"So, what are you going to do with all this time off? Do you think you and Ichigo will let bygones be bygones and share a Christmas drink?"

Grimmjow's eyes flashed, and he choked back a snarl that threatened to roll up his throat. Now that was a damn stupid question. Was the guy looking for a fight? Nothing stirred Grimmjow's temper quite like the thought of being taunted and mocked. And there was no doubt that the reporter was goading him for a reaction. Grimmjow's entire demeanour stiffened, and the jostling group of men and women fell silent. At the same time, they seemed to lean forward as one.

"No comment." he growled. With that, Grimmjow shrugged past the large crowd of reporters, who instantly burst into a chorus of chatter. Once through, he bent low and swiped his heavy hockey bag from the floor as if it weighed nothing and made a beeline for the door..

That was all they were getting from him. They had their soundbite from the sexta, and they could stick it up their asses if that's what they wanted to do with it. Besides, he was sure Ichigo would have enough derogatory things to say about him to keep the press happy when they found him as well. The thought left Grimmjow in a foul mood for the entire ride home.

After that, Grimmjow had stayed out of the social scene as much as possible. He'd spent the greater part of his time keeping himself busy and healthy by training at the gym; doing cardio and strength training while plugged into headphones to drown out the Christmas cacophony that seemed to be gumming up the airwaves as well as everybody's lips.

Beyond that, Grimmjow kept a low profile, opting to stay in his apartment and read or disappear into an action thriller. In a week the festive season would be another bitter memory, and he'd be back on the ice, doing what he was born to do.

Hurt.

That was the plan. But just because Grimmjow didn't want to see the world, didn't mean the world had entirely forgotten about him. After scrolling through the short list of messages on his private number, he'd turned down a few invites for parties and dinners.

Except the ones from his mother.

As always, she'd prepared a proper Christmas dinner; roast turkey with home-made stuffing and all the fixings. And being the good son that he was, Grimmjow had picked up some last minute items for his ma, helped her set their table for two, then dug in with gusto.

Normally, he always told his ma about his day, partly because it was good to talk to someone he trusted, but also because it made the woman smile.

And he loved it when she smiled.

But this time, when she casually asked him to pass the gravy and tell her why he'd fought his own teammate, Grimmjow had simply sat and stared at the gravy boat in his hand before setting it down gently in front of her in silence. What could he say? He didn't have any answers for her. Other than, he was frustrated. But she'd heard that before.

"My Grimmjow, you know how much it hurts me to see you so upset."

"It's nothin' ma."

"Come. Tell me what is wrong. Why is it, you are having violent relations with your teammate?"

Grimmjow choked so hard on the piece of turkey he'd been chewing that he had to spit it out into his napkin to get his breath.

"That's **NOT** how you say it!" he blustered. Bright blue eyes landed on his mother as he reached for his glass of white wine and cleared his throat. He swallowed down a mouthful of the dry liquid and then tried to explain himself. "We got into a scrap. That's what happened."

"Well, what did I say?" his mother squinted at him in confusion.

"N-never mind. Just don't say that again, ok?" Grimmjow's cheeks had a tinge to them that didn't come from the wine. He had no problem making obscene jokes around the guys and talking dirty to the ladies, but where his ma was concerned, well, the woman was a saint. Hearing her talk about things like that was just plain wrong.

The older woman shrugged and gave a small frown of agreement before she resumed her probe of her turkey and her son's antics.

"Well, why did you scrap then?"

"Because he's an asshole," Grimmjow snapped without thinking. It was just a reflex where Kurosaki was concerned.

"Grimmjow!" Grimmjow jumped at the pain that flared across his knuckles as his ma cracked him across the back of his hand with the blunt side of her knife. "You know there is no room for that in my house."

"Ma! That hurt!" Grimmjow whined, shaking his hand and scowling at his ma. Saint, he'd said?

"Oph. You are being a baby now. No more of this. If you don't want to tell me, then don't. I will listen when you are ready to be grown up."

Grimmjow? The sexta? Not grown up? Now he was getting shit from his ma, and it was all because of Kurosaki. He had half a mind to tell her just what it was that the orangette had said about her, about him.

"He said that... "

Grimmjow took in the weathered, but angelic expression on his mother's face. No. On second thought...

"He pushed my buttons is all," he mumbled.

"He must have pushed pretty hard, Grimmjow."

"Look ma, I just got outta control for a moment. But it's fine. We ain't gonna have any more problems like that." Grimmjow was pretty sure he was lying to himself and his mother in the same breath. He wanted to go another round with Kurosaki almost as much as he never wanted to lay eyes on him again. There was no denying it though. That fight had been exhilarating. Beyond the scraps he got into on a regular basis.

"Ok, then. If you say it is so, then I will trust you."

Grimmjow's mother smiled at him and refilled her plate with seconds of everything. For an older woman, she had one hell of an appetite. Grimmjow reached for the serving spoon and ladled a mountain of turkey onto his plate as well. He looked over the nest of food on his plate, then glanced up at his mother with a slight frown.

"Please pass the stuffing."


	14. Chapter 14

**MG, so glad this is done. Had to break it into two again, otherwise this chap would have been 12,000 words. Bit much, neh?  
Good news is, next part is close. And the following two chaps are pretty much done as well. So next few updates will be nice and fast!  
Enjoy! JB.**

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**CHAPTER 14****  
**

Grimmjow heard him coming before he saw him.

The Reaper's enforcer padded down the hallway, the rubber treads of his winter boots packed with snow that was just beginning to melt. The blue-haired hockey player scowled impassively at everything as he squelched his way across the freshly polished cement floors, nodding at one of the security guards who greeted him by name, but only because it was the social protocol. As soon as he passed the guard, he forgot about him.

Despite the fact that the arena was still quiet, Grimmjow's head seemed intent on cluttering itself up with hoo-ha. And what a racquet it was making. It was hours before the game yet, security and staff busy with their jobs, preparing for the onslaught of bodies soon to cut a boisterous swath through the arena doors like a hoard of hungry locusts. Grimmjow didn't know exactly how things were going to go tonight. But it wasn't the game that was troubling him as he marched through the lobby and entered the halls, as much as it was one of the players.

He had expressly promised his ma that he wouldn't let himself be sucked into another childish squabble with his teammate... her words, not his. But he honestly didn't see how that was going to happen. He still had so much to say to Kurosaki... with his fists, with his body. He ached inside. The feeling had only grown since their spat, something empty and cold lusting for a sense of dominance in their worsening feud in a strange exciting way that only anger and madness together can breed. He yearned to get Ichigo alone again, not for the peace and strange discomfort they'd last had alone together, and not to spew venomous words at each other, but to pin him to the wall, to still him, to hold him there and make him understand Grimmjow's...

The heavy footfalls of his team mate reached his ears, even over the din he was making inside his head and in the corridor. The bluenet blinked, and the walls of the hallway reappeared in front of him like a ship breaking through a wall of thick, grey mist. When Grimmjow turned around to see who it was coming up behind him, he was met with a familiar face.

The bluenet was a little bit later than usual for his first game back, and Kensei was just finishing his final lap around the building before getting suited up.

"You missed a good party, Grimmjow." Kensei's greeting was a little choppy as he bobbed down the hall towards the bluenet who was still wrapped in the scent of fresh winter air, a touch of dampness dragging down his barely styled blue locks. A similar sparse dusting of pellety snow sat on his jacket shoulders, still white, but melting now in the warmer air of the arena hallways. Grimmjow didn't bother to brush it off.

"Yeah?" Grimmjow greeted his team captain with the barest of smiles as the white-haired forward jogged towards him. He was wary of Kensei right now. He was fairly certain he wasn't referring to the team's traditional warm up at the cross roads. He'd definitely missed that party. But Kensei was probably referring to the calls Grimmjow had brushed off during his self exile over the holidays. Grimmjow hadn't answered his friend's call over Christmas. Instead, he'd sent only a text reply to the invite he'd received to one of Kensei's "soirees".

"Yeah," Kensei replied as he caught up to the blue-haired enforcer, rubber soles squeaking erratically as he avoided a potential wipe-out in one of Grimmjow's puddles. He ran his eyes over the bluenet quickly, taking in his slightly haggard appearance. He looked tired when he should look rested. He glanced up at the fantastic display of blue bedhead and frowned. The man hadn't even paid attention to his hair tonight, a sure sign of his slipping mental state.

"What'd you do that was so important you had to miss my wife's Christmas chilli-cheese meatballs?" he chided.

Grimmjow continued to walk as he regarded the man to his left with veiled curiosity, ignoring the sticky wet strands of blue hair that were falling against his forehead in increasing numbers with each passing step. Kensei seemed to be in a jovial mood, but the bluenet didn't buy it.

Grimmjow didn't reply, but he raised an eyebrow slightly. Those were bloody good meatballs. If he hadn't eaten already, his stomach would be growling.

"And... " Kensei continued. "We had the new hot tub installed. Bigger.. hotter.. with more bubbles." Kensei cheshire-grinned at him while he pressed his index finger to his wrist to check his heart-rate. "And once the party really wound up, clothing was not an option."

Grimmjow felt a shallow but sharkish grin pull at his mouth before it vanished again.

"Hn. Sarah married you on purpose right? She didn't get ya confused with some other guy?"

"Nope." Kensei smiled, chin rising with pride. "Took me as I am. And I'll never giver up. Besides, she was checking out the guests as much as I was."

"Atta girl." Grimmjow's smile broadened then faded.

He kind of wish he'd answered that call, now. But he hadn't. He had told himself that he preferred to lick his wounds in private. But it was cowardly in a way, because he knew Kensei would corner him sooner or later. And he knew that dealing with things in his own special way was getting them nowhere. He also knew Kensei to be the most understanding person he could think of, at least when it came to him. Kensei seemed to know when to leave things alone, and unlike others, he was consistently pleasant to Grimmjow, treating him with tempered respect, and giving him room to breathe when he needed it

But Grimmjow could feel it coming. The talk. Kensei was pretty much done with Grimmjow's little feud with his orange-haired counterpart, and he knew it.

"So?" Kensei began.

"What?" Grimmjow mumbled as they walked side by side down the hall, his laden sports bag jarring the thick muscles in his arm with each step.

"How was your Christmas?"

Grimmjow took several strides before answering in a colorless voice.

"Was alright."

"Good. And you had some time to yourself."

Kensei's statement came with warning bells, and Grimmjow felt his neck muscles go as tense as the ones in his arm.

"Yeah."

"Great. So... are you going to sit down and talk things out with Kurosaki?"

Grimmjow huffed a perturbed sigh as they traversed the long hallway, irritation making his steps quick and heavy. Kensei had cut right to the chase. And here they were. No avoiding it now. But that didn't mean Grimmjow wasn't up for trying.

When the bluenet didn't reply with more than a wordless grunt, Kensei turned to an easier solution, offering to aid the two males in their awkward dance.

"If you have trouble talking to him, I can always..."

"Che." The harsh sound was loud enough to cut Kensei off and was a sight more resentful this time.

In response to Grimmjow's cool attitude, Kensei's demeanour and tenor also took a turn, sliding quickly from relaxed and jovial to harsh and assertive.

"I don't know what's going on between you two, but it has to stop."

Grimmjow kept walking, eyes fixed on the path ahead.

"Leave it alone, Kensei," he cautioned. He wasn't really angry yet. Just tired. With the mood he was in right now, returning to the game post-dramatics and unable to remember the last goal he'd scored, the entire subject just left him feeling out of place and in the way.

"Right," Kensei drawled, the word dragging with sarcasm. "Because leaving things alone has worked out so well for you." Kensei paid no attention to the curt grunt he received, and when Grimmjow turned his head and his eyes landed on him in anger, he met the bluenet's glare head-on.

But a glare was not an answer. And after a moment's consideration, Kensei decided to press the issue. Kensei couldn't believe how Grimmjow couldn't seem to be reasonable at all when it came to Ichigo. He hated to say it, but whenever the two of them interacted, Grimmjow was a real tool. It was a risk to provoke the bluenet, but if anyone could get away with it, it would be Kensei.

"What would _he_ think?" he asked, watching the bluenet close.

Grimmjow stopped mid stride, the catch in his throat as loud as a slapshot in the empty stretch of hallway. The muscles in his neck and jaw went rigid, the only part of the enforcer's body Kensei could see beyond the wrinkled leather winter jacket, black gloves, and midnight blue track pants.

Kensei had never been afraid of Grimmjow. Aware of what he could do, yes. But if push ever came to shove, he could equal the bluenet if he needed to. Grimmjow may be strong and aggressive, but he was still young and emotional, and more often than not at the mercy of his own anger. Whether the enforcer thought so or not, it was a fact. Even more so lately.

"You should walk away from me."

Grimmjow's left cheek twitched slightly, creasing his eye and pulling at his lip. The creak of leather being stretched out brought Kensei's attention down onto tightened fists as the bluenet turned his cold gaze onto the empty space down the hall, voice brittle.

"Right now."

That was all the warning Kensei needed. He sighed quietly, nodded, and moved on ahead of Grimmjow.

What he'd said, he'd said to get his point across. He knew his words carried with them the sting of betrayal. It had hurt the blue-haired man deeply, but it needed to be done. Grimmjow needed to start thinking about what he was doing out there. He was going to self destruct if he kept on going the way he was.

It was amazing how much a man who seemed to let everything out was actually holding in.

**X X X**

"Alright boys. Saddle up! It's gonna be a rough ride!"

Ichigo finished stripping off his shirt and smirked at Shinji, who was making a crude show of himself in little more than his athletic cup. If it weren't for the fact that Shinji's other career was chasing women, he wouldn't have put it past him to be playing for the other team.

"Shit, Shinji!" Renji Abarai bawled from across the room. "Would you quit with the cowboy talk? It makes ya sound gay."

"Only for you, baby!" Shinji gave a suggestive hip thrust in Renji's direction, then looked to Ichigo to back him up. Ichigo balled up his shirt and dropped it on the bench.

"If I were Renji, I wouldn't give you a dime," he muttered.

At the other end of the room, the tattooed red-head shook his head. Usually _he_ was the vulgar one, but he couldn't keep up with Shinji when he was in a playful mood like this.

"Yeah?" Renji shot back. "Better tell them Hollow's that yer taken, then, cause I saw a few a'them checking out yer ass last time."

"Yeah?" Shijnji echoed. "Well it's a good thing they like it, 'cause it's all they're gonna be seeing tonight."

"You better hope so, Hirako," a new voice chimed in. "The last thing you want is Yammy Llargo on top of you."

Ichigo shuddered at the mental picture of an amorous Yammy. Shinji turned towards Kensei and shrugged.

"Eh. We can take'm, boss."

"And that's the spirit we need tonight," Kensie agreed, nodding at the blond before turning and addressing everyone in the room. There seemed to be a longstanding natural hostility between the two teams. And there was every chance that this was going to be a bloodbath. He heard Grimmjow come in behind him, and he slid him a meaningful look over his shoulder.

"Let's just remember to keep our heads up tonight. We can't afford to lose anybody out there."

Ichigo and Grimmjow both stopped what they were doing and glanced at each other, guarded brown meeting jaded blue for an brief moment in silent understanding. Kensei was warning his players to be extra vigilant. But between the lines, he was sending a message to the two of them.

No. More. Fights.

**X X X**

Despite their lacklustre performances, one by one the Reapers poured onto the ice to greet the near sell-out crowd. It turned out that even the national hockey league wasn't so dignified that it couldn't benefit from a little sensationalism. The scandal that had been the "shame of hockey" had also caused the ratings to skyrocket.

When number fifteen and number six hit the ice, the crowd erupted into a mix of jeers, cheers and catcalls. Reapers fans were mad, but at the same time, they seemed oddly fond of their temperamental duo. Ichigo was at a loss, and Grimmjow gave a perplexed shrug to one of his other teammates. It seemed they had become the crowd's "special little guys".

The crowd was amped, a churning sea of black, blue and gold as fans spun towels high over their heads. Their respective cities were geographically close, and a few Hollow supporters were scattered through the stands, but they were always crowded out by the home team's legion of dedicated fans.

They booed the Hollows as they hit the ice. Everyone knew it was going to be dirty game. Both team's hated each other. At least the Reapers were on home turf this time around. Not that the idea of being in the lion's den would do anything _but_ bring out the savage in the Hollow's even more.

And they had their heavy hitters tonight. The Hollows were up to full force. After a shoulder injury and a pulled hamstring, Yammy Llargo and Nnnoitra Jiurga were back in the swing of things... those things being roughing up players and breaking up plays.

The Reapers got that message about thirty seconds in when one of their defence men, Kira Izuru, was dispatched against the boards. He stayed down and was tended to by the Reapers' medical staff for several minutes until he finally limped off the ice. It was a positive sign that he'd made it off the ice under his own power, but he wouldn't return for the rest of the night.

Not even a minute in, and the air felt positively charged. Even the arena's DJ had managed to capture the tense atmosphere, stirring the crowd up after the first injury with Eminem's, Lose Yourself.

**You better lose yourself in the music**

**The moment, you own it, you better never let it go**

**You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow**

**This opportunity comes once in a lifetime, yo**

You didn't need skill or talent to face off against the Hollows. You needed a survival plan.

That in itself, should have kept the two warring Reapers busy. But as soon as Ichigo fumbled his first pass from Grimmjow...and then his second... blue eyes landed on him and narrowed.

The first period was a disaster before it even started. While Ichigo seemed bent on getting into an all out sword fight over the puck with nearly every player on the opposing team, Grimmjow was busy trying to get himself penalized for harassing the players and the officials. In fact, his mouth had nearly gotten him ejected after a particularly unfavourable call against the Reaper's.

"Check your fuckin' rule book ref!" he'd barked. "You get your credentials outta a box a' fuckin' cereal?!"

But as long as they weren't fighting each other, the coach didn't seem to mind.

**X X X**

Grimmjow's earlier lassitude was long gone by the time he left the ice for the first intermission. He was energized, fired up, and pissed. Nothing was going right... the game, his career, his sex life, his... that damn Kurosaki. Even Kensei was up in his business now. It was getting easier and easier to just surrender to the anger.

As it was, he'd surrendered his body to some heavy punishment in the first period. In one self sacrificing move, he'd allowed himself to collide with a player when he wasn't properly braced in order to give Ichigo a clear shot at the net. The Hollow's goalie had gone down to stop a shot and left the net wide open. Grimmjow had snagged the rebound but couldn't take a shot because he was screened by a Hollow. When the player ran at Grimmjow, he'd feathered the puck back to Ichigo and taken the hit. The net was open, but Ichigo still missed.

He'd played less than twenty minutes of the game he loved. And he was already feeling the beating he'd taken, chewing through his muscles and into his bones.

As he clattered down the hallway, trailing behind the team, his head was buzzing with missed chances, stolen opportunities, and wordless regrets. Things left buried and untouched in a shallow grave were whispering words he couldn't hear. And didn't want to.

The moment sunset hair came into view, the blue-haired forward snarled, and a wave of rage crashed against him as if he were rocks, drowning everything else out. Grimmjow didn't even waste a breath on formalities. As soon as he entered the locker room, he launched into a verbal assault, leaving a blindsided Ichigo to catch up to Grimmjow's train of thought on his own time.

"How the hell could you miss that?! I cleared you a fucking yellow brick road!"

The second the lights went on, Ichigo rounded on Grimmjow like a spinning top who's string had been ripped away.

"Who asked you to?!" he screamed. "I've told you! Quit protecting _me_ and worry about your damn self!"

"Yer the one who should be worried!" Grimmjow snapped. He brought his arm up as if to pull back for a right hook. Ichigo didn't even flinch.

"You wanna take a shot?" Ichigo growled, hands balled up at his sides "You go ahead, okay?!"

Kurosaki was livid, brown eyes almost black, so dark they looked hollowed out, his smooth features twisted with dark fury. Grimmjow felt his muscles turn watery as they lost their starch, and he nearly staggered back as if he'd taken a physical blow.

Grimmjow didn't like that look...

...being directed at him.

And there was that confusion again. That look both enraged and excited him, and stilled him. Grimmjow's feet wouldn't move as he watched Ichigo watch him back through unfamiliar eyes. It was like Grimmjow had broken through to the the thing beneath, the real, the raw, that part of Ichigo who had the decency not to hide behind the restraints of civility and social graces. The corner of number fifteen that was... a little bit uncivilized.

He hated it, and he loved it.

Grimmjow waited a beat for something, anything, to happen, someone to step in and pull him away from the trap he'd walked into again. But Ichigo just stared him down, unflinching, and unforgiving. It seemed he had nothing left to say to Grimmjow.

And that was when Grimmjow felt it, in his stomach, a hole that yawned wide inside him, like something had been lost, destroyed. Crushed by his own hand. It stunned him, and pissed him off.

For a few heart beats they held each others' gaze, waiting for the other to blink.

Grimmjow looked away first. He gave Ichigo a once over, looking him up and down, and snorted.

"Che. You gettin' so huffy about?" he mumbled. He turned on his bladed heel and retreated through the group of curious players that had stopped to watch the argument with varying degrees of concern. But it was over so fast, that they hadn't interfered.

Ichigo watched, stunned, as Grimmjow saunter away like 'that shit hadn't just happened.'

Shiro's arm came up across his chest like a bar, the intent to keep him from launching at Grimmjow's back. Apparently he had a bit of a murderous look in his eye that had concerned the pale player. But the arm meant to restrain him was actually steadying him. He teetered forward against Shiro's hand. It wasn't by very much, but the pale player felt it and pushed back, quietly acknowledging Ichigo's plight.

His knees were but a stringy ligament away from giving out after the sudden spike in his blood pressure that only Grimmjow seemed capable of causing. But the anger that had flared up seconds ago was already receding into burning curiosity. Grimmjow had come at him, again, and then bolted like a kitten who'd just realized the dog it was hissing at wasn't actually chained up.

Why did Grimmjow keep doing that? It was a definite pattern, the goading, the insults, the physical pressure. And to think, Ichigo had planned to talk to Grimmjow today... if he could mustered the guts. It wasn't fear per say that held him back, just the impotent feeling that trying to communicate with Grimmjow and have it be productive would be like running on a treadmill while searching for a needle in a haystack... at night... in the rain... with a glow-stick.

Grimmjow didn't really have an answer for Kurosaki's question. And the bluenet didn't even consider the fact that Ichigo might just tackle him from behind as he lumbered across the floor as quickly and casually as he could on his blades. He only considered one thing; that Grimmjow needed distance, fast.

He made his way across the floor and took a hard left into the washrooms, staying on the padded trail, passing the showers and sliding into one of the stalls. He closed the latch on the door with the back of his glove and let himself slump, shoulder and head pressed against the wall at his side, eyes shut tight, breaths panted shallow and fast through parted lips.

Kensei had been right.

He wouldn't be proud of this. Not this weak thing. Grimmjow was born to be strong, to be the best, to be king.

But right now... he swallowed against a silent shudder... in the stall of the washroom, in the Reapers locker room, in the middle of game in Seireitei's Sokyoku Hill Arena... Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez...

...was quietly falling apart.

**X X X**

Just past the middle mark of the second, the Reapers were down three to one. The pace of the game remained fast and furious, and although the Hollow's had the mindset of merciless warriors, the physical play was wearing both teams down. It was a wonder that the Reaper's had only seen one major injury so far, but they still had a long way to go.

Their good health was thanks in part to the Reaper's enforcer. Any hint that the infamous sexta was distracted was masked by the blue-eyed forward's ugly behaviour. He didn't appear to have anything on his mind but aggressively annihilating every living thing on the ice that wasn't clothed in Reaper's colors.

And Ichigo noticed with growing unease how much attention he was getting for it. The crowd responded wildly to every violent hit he delivered. The coach patted him on the shoulder. And the Hollow's were lining him up every chance they got.

Grimmjow was definitely letting his dark side out tonight. In fact, he was being downright belligerent. Ichigo caught himself getting distracted time after time by the bluenet's savage snarls and his relentless pursuit of the opposing team. How the bluenet was managing to keep his hits relatively clean and avoid being taken down himself was frankly impressive. And Ichigo hadn't failed to notice as** t**he game continued that Grimmjow had taken on Nnoitra's style of play, hitting players as hard as could without overtly breaking the rules. Or at least he wasn't getting caught.

Ichigo didn't like it. He knew something wasn't right. And he couldn't shake the feeling that the clock was winding down.

The feeling only grew as the game went on. Ichigo could hardly keep his mind on the puck in front of him. Every time the boards crashed, he couldn't resist looking around to see if Grimmjow had finally taken himself out. It almost seemed to be his aim. And Ichigo shouldn't have been as concerned as he was about a man he didn't even like. But if he didn't care about the bluenet, then who would? Certainly not Grimmjow.

It seemed to Ichigo, more than ever, that Grimmjow didn't care about himself or his body. He would damage it because he knew it would heal, place himself physically in the line of fire, because flesh and bone would mend itself over time. Then he could do it again.

Well, apparently Ichigo, at least, wasn't going to let the blue-haired lunatic treat himself with careless disregard. And he'd yelled at the sexta in alarm to watch his back when the Hollow's quatra had come slithering up behind him.

Grimmjow was first in the race to the puck. And Ulquiorra was on him in a second, trying to run him from behind. The sexta heard the shout, but he'd seen it coming too. Grimmjow braced and grunted as he took the solid hit into the boards, the force of the impact sending a short shock wave rolling through the tall protective plastic windows one after the other. Ulquiorra staggered back from his own hit against the larger sexta, and before he could make a grab for the puck, Grimmjow shovelled it up the ice. He winced. Then he was moving again.

On his end, Ichigo was playing the very same game. Every time their shifts had coincided, Jiruga had been angling for a piece of him. Halfway through the second, the giant had caught Ichigo in the knee as he'd been skating towards the Hollow's goal, and Ichigo had fallen most ungracefully. He'd done an awkward cartwheel and crashed right into the net, taking the net off its moorings and carrying it along with him in an epic slide into the boards. The fans had jumped up in concern, but Ichigo had rolled out and climbed to his feet unharmed.

He'd been fine if not miffed. That was the closest thing to scoring he'd done all night. And Ichigo was throwing everything he had into it. Whenever he'd had the power to take his eyes off Grimmjow, he'd been making life as difficult for the Hollows as he could. More than ever, he had something to prove. That he was here to play hockey and that he deserved to be on this team, even if the mighty sexta didn't agree.

After the net was returned to its place, the game started up again. A few moments in, Ichigo caught a sloppy pass from his goaltender, and after a short scuffle behind the net, he gathered up the puck and took off down the ice. He ran along the boards, checking his blindside while trying to maintain control of the puck. He was only halfway up the ice before he suddenly rid himself of the black disc like it was a live grenade, shooting it across the ice and hoping it found the right stick.

The orangette had caught sight of the mountainous Hollow bearing down on him with an eager grin that turned his veins into ice trays.

Nnoitra Jiruga was an executioner, and he loved his job. And as suddenly as Ichigo saw him, the giant was crushed against him, running him down the ice against the short boards along the Hollow's bench. While Nnoitra leaned into him, Ichigo fought to keep from being upended into the bench. It happened to players quite frequently and it was never pretty. It was an undignified scene to be head first in your opposing teammates' lap. And being bent over and sandwiched against the boards could sometimes resulted in a broken rib.

But what was even more worrisome was the end of the bench, where the protective plexiglass rose up to separate the crowd from the on-ice action.

Every player's nightmare. A head-on collision with the dreaded partition. A padded steel post. And it was coming up fast.

Ichigo cursed as he tried to brake, but his skates were barely on the ice. Nnoitra Jiruga was taking him for a ride, lining him up with the oncoming edge of the barrier. And Jiruga, the heartless player that he was, wasn't even looking at Ichigo, playing it like he didn't know that he'd picked up a hitchhiker and was about to cause a catastrophic injury.

Ichigo's mind raced as the partition shot towards him. Ichigo had seen players laid up for months after this kind of dirty attack. This was not how Ichigo was going to go out. In a desperate attempt to save himself, he abandoned his stick and threw his arms up to absorb the blow as best he could as he collided with the steel post.

The fans were a turbulent ocean, cresting over their seats like white capped waves. They had paid good money for their seats to see the Reapers play the Hollows, and it was moments like these that kept them out of those seats for the entire game.

The crowd reacted with a collective gasp as number fifteen came to a sudden and painful stop against the barrier then spun down to the ice. Whistles blew, and the crowd began to boo and jeer its displeasure. But number fifteen was already trying to get up, pushing himself onto his knees as he caught his breath and waited for the bells to stop ringing. The displeased noise turned to hollers of elation even before Ichigo was helped the rest of the way to his feet by Shiro.

He was stunned, but he was okay. He had been saved by his reflexes and by the thick foam padding that lined the outer edges of the glass between the player's benches, a recent safety measure he was thankful for.

The fans at home had been just as wound up as the ticket holders in the stadium as they watched that moment play out on their screens.

The two game announcers' voices began low and calm.

"_Jiruga has the puck. The Reapers are really feeling the pressure here tonight. The Hollows aren't giving them an inch of their own ice."_

"_They never do. They're a big team, and they'll fight ya in the ditch."_

"_Jaegerjaquez is trying to steal it back from Nnoitra Jiruga... and...Jiruga wins that one, rocketing a shot of at the goaltender. He makes the save, and flips it back up to Kurosaki who wrangles it away from Wonderweiss Margera behind the net and powers down the ice. Jiruga is hot on his heels and...he takes him against the boards and... Jiruga rocks Kurosaki Ichigo!"_

The announcer broke his narrative long enough to suck in air and raise his voice several octaves before he painted a crystal clear picture of what was happening for hockey fans everywhere with three simple strokes.

"_Here we go. Here we go! Shenanigans!" he screamed._

The moment he saw Ichigo go down, Grimmjow pounced on Nnoitra like he'd stolen his winning lottery ticket.

"_Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez is taking on Nnoitra Jiruga. And I don't like Jaegerjaquez's chances here because he is gonna get tagged bad."_

"_Jaegerjaquez has never backed down from any fight I've ever seen. And he's wrestling Jiruga nicely, just keeping his head out of Jiruga's long reach."_

Jiruga laughed out loud at the sexta's attempt to fight him, as he did with all of his opponents. Like the ants they were, Jiruga would snuff them out with his large fist and lethal reach. The giant grinned and threw a quick hard punch, meant to knock Grimmjow's teeth clear of his mouth. But Grimmjow was faster.

Ichigo watched, still shaken from his hit, but unable to comprehend the look of rage on Grimmjow's face or the lightening fast way he manoeuvred himself around Nnoitra's strikes.

Grimmjow's world was clouded in a red haze. He may not have liked him, but he'd sworn to protect the orangette. And nobody, especially this evil asshole, was going to lay a hand on Kurosaki as long as Grimmjow breathed. Just the thought that he already had, brought his blood to the boil. The enforcer left his skates and thrust his right arm up towards Jiruga's throat. His gloves were long gone, two padded missiles that had skipped across the ice.

Jiruga blocked the bluenet's efforts and sneered. Grimmjow ignored it and tucked in low, head down as he took two hard blows to the back from above. He pulled back then ducked beneath Nnoitra's third punch, and instead of punching back, the enforcer dove back inside the deadly reach. He grabbed the Hollow's sleeve and yanked down as hard as he could, causing Nnoitra to stumble forward. Grimmjow snarled, victorious, and hooked his forearm over the lanky giants' shoulder, then pulled him close, putting him in a sideways headlock.

His hold was slipping fast, but Grimmjow jumped and tried to drag Jiruga the rest of the way down. The giant choked out a curse and threw his fist into Grimmjow's side, bone dense knuckles finding his ribs. Pain flared in his side, but like a pit pull hanging on with snapped tight jaws, the sexta wouldn't let go. He intended to use his weight and momentum to bring number five crashing down to ice level. Then we would let loose every ounce of rage he had onto his former teammate.

With a wheeze, Nnoitra came to his knees. But before Grimmjow could even throw one punch, the linesmen and several players were between them, pulling them apart like sticky toffee.

The arena music and cheers of approval together were earsplitting. They were both headed to the sin bin. Nnoitra for his hit on Ichigo. Grimmjow for instigating.

Grimmjow trucked across the ice, breath heavy in his lungs, hair in disarray where his helmet had been torn from his head during his struggles. It had taken a lot of energy to go up against Nnoitra, like trying to wrestle down an overweight grizzly bear. And he'd been putting his all into this game, trying to be a good enforcer, if nothing else.

He stepped into the sin bin to wait out his five minutes, coming down hard on his ass and aching thighs. Fans banged on the glass behind him, trying to grab his attention. He ignored it for a moment, but their persistence finally paid off as Grimmjow turned and flashed them an arrogant grin. Sometimes, he forgot that he was a hero in their eyes. The one player that took punishment almost as much as he dished it out. So, he showed them what they loved to see, and not the mild tremors he felt running through his legs.

When the penalty was over, Grimmjow returned to the bench. He was greeted with a gloved high five by Kaien Shiba, their best defence-man, and the only man to score so far tonight.

"Yo, Grimmjow! You're the king, baby! Did you eat nails for breakfast again?"

Grimmjow sneered with contempt and snorted while Kaien shoved down the bench, making room for Grimmjow right next to Ichigo.

"No," he rumbled. "I'm still hungry." He slammed his stick against the boards. "Feed me that fucker."

Grimmjow wedged his way into his spot, hips pressed against those of the man he'd just avenged.

Still a bit dazed, Ichigo had been impressed all to shit while he watched Grimmjow attack Nnoitra without regard for himself. But by now he was over being amazed. Now Ichigo was just incensed. It was more than aggressive. It was messed up. Ichigo couldn't stand it.

"What the hell do you think you were doing back there?" Ichigo hissed. Grimmjow turned his battered visage and curled his lip at Ichigo in a parody of a grin.

"Just helping out a lady in distress," he drawled.

"I don't need your help," Ichigo growled back, refusing to give his partner the satisfaction of knowing that the barb had stung. He gave Grimmjow's freshly marred face a pointed once over as Grimmjow looked back and down at him from the corner of his eye. "Jesus, look at you, " Ichigo muttered.

"Che. Don't be such a killjoy." Grimmjow spared Ichigo an unreadable slit-eyed inspection, then azure eyes looked away.

"You're being reckless," Ichigo grumbled, scowling at the players as they battled at the far end of the ice. He'd had a good long look at the bluenet when he'd deposited himself beside Ichigo on the bench. He didn't need to look again. Grimmjow was already developing a bone yard of scars and scrapes all over his face, and the night was far from over.

Grimmjow kept his gaze trained on the ice, looking distinctly disinterested with what Ichigo had to say.

"Man up, Kurosaki," he breathed. "You ain't speedin', you ain't racin."

Ichigo glared across the ice at one of the advertizing slogans pasted along the boards.

It read, "Where hockey lives".

He snorted.

No.

_This_ was where _stubborn_ lived.


	15. Chapter 15

**Can't believe I got this done today. *dies * I started checking but gave up half way. Oh yeah, and I forgot to spell check. My delirium has made me lame. So, yeah, mistakes, lemme know, but I'll give it a read over later when i can see again.**

**Drama-rama! Enjoy!**

**Junichiblue**

* * *

**CHAPTER 15**

A few more shifts on the ice, and the buzzer sounded like a death knoll. They'd made it through the second period without giving up any more goals, but the chances of the tired, battered team coming back to win it seemed lost on the horizon.

At the moment, Grimmjow could care less. He wanted to have a word with the spirited, brown-eyed bane of his existence. The frantic mommy routine was getting under Grimmjow's skin, not because the younger man seemed to care, but because Grimmjow couldn't imagine why he did.

He knew what the answer would be, that Ichigo just cared about people in general, and that Grimmjow was no different. Then Grimmjow could tell him to go to hell and to quit acting like he gave a shit and to stay out of Grimmjow's fucking business.

But time was running out. The sexta had been held back by the coach at the bench. The man had just wanted to tell Grimmjow what a great job he'd been doing and to keep up that energetic attitude. He didn't seem to give a shit how much time Grimmjow spent in the penalty box. He just wanted him for his body. Well... didn't everyone.

The bluenet entered the Reaper's changing area and glowered around the room, annoyed when the shock of sun-bright hair didn't immediately make itself apparent.

"Where is that shit stain?" he growled at Shiro. The albino shrugged at him from his carved out space near the corner of the bench, knowing full well who the blue-haired enforcer was talking about.

Grimmjow slid his helmet off and ran long fingers through sweat matted hair, huffing in annoyance at the little tremble of anxiety that shook them to their tips.

His target missing, Grimmjow didn't know which way to go. So, he stood at the entrance while he pondered the forward's absence. He wasn't hurt enough to need attention, he mused. The coach must've held him back to do an interview during intermission.

A lot of the player's did that, but Grimmjow refused to during a game. He didn't mind being well known and signing an occasional autograph, but having a camera lens shoved in his face, especially in the middle of a game, was akin to being in a dentist's chair and having an unskilled technician bore holes in his molars with a power drill. And the whole ordeal just messed with his head. When he was in the arena and game time came, he was the Sexta. He had enough distractions already.

Grimmjow's scowled sharpened, and he mumbled an expletive. He couldn't wait around all day for the orangette to return. He had his own shit to take care of. Grimmjow lifted his gaze from the empty spot where number fifteen should have been, and came to life. He turned to cross the room, only to realize his path was being blocked by a blond-haired obstruction.

Shinji Hirako was faced away, stretching his back, twisting at the waste while he held his stick horizontal across the back of his shoulders. And he was right in the middle of Grimmjow's fucking road.

"Move yer fuckin' ass outta the way, Hirako. People need ta get through." Grimmjow bulldozed past the much smaller player, making Shinji stagger as he pushed his way by to get to his locker.

"Holy shit, Grim! What's with you tonight?" the blond groused angrily. "Has it been twenty eight days since your last period?"

Shinji knew that next to the popular enforcer, he didn't even rate on the danger scale, but he had no qualms about mouthing off to anyone who got in his face. Outside of the rink, he would avoid a fight if he thought it best, but he was a scrapper by nature, and when push came to shove, Shinji could be as tough as anyone.

Grimmjow came to a sudden stop and spun around, causing nearly every head to turn in alarm.

"Hey! Fuck you, Hirako!" Grimmjow snapped, eyes flashing. Shinji swallowed around a suddenly dry throat as the large enforcer stared him down. The bluenet was visibly holding himself back, but as a few tense heartbeats skipped by, he seemed to reign in his burst of anger and began to turn away.

"Only if you buy me dinner first," Shinji jeered. He was still rankled from the bluenet's abuse, and equally peeved from their poor showing so far in tonight's game. Grimmjow wasn't the only one on this team, but he damn well acted like it. For such a tough guy, he was becoming more and more of a drama queen every day.

The blond haired man yelped but danced neatly around the glove that was hurled across the locker room, the heavy gear slamming into the wall behind him at head level before landing with a hollow thud on the floor.

Ichigo paused at the doorway, pondering his timing as a glove struck the wall behind Shinji like it had been fired from a rocket launcher. He sighed, and crossed the threshold as quietly as he could, slipping into his space in the corner. He didn't need to guess who the glove belonged to.

Shinji Hirako turned and frowned at the glove as he pondered his chances with another retaliatory comment. They probably weren't good.

Grimmjow wasn't playing.

As usual, with the long practised ease of a lion tamer, it was Kensei who stepped in and defused the bluenet before he could really go off on all the wrong people. Tempers were really beginning to flare. They were losing to the Hollows on home ice _again_ after two periods of play, and everybody needed to keep a cool head if they had any chance of pulling a win out of their ass before the night was done.

"C'mon, Grimmjow. Tell us why you ain't afraid of Nnoitra Jiruga," Kensei prodded, a hint of mischief in his eyes. He already knew the answer, having heard it several times before. Ichigo caught the banter as he slumped in his seat and pressed against the ache in his temples with thumb and forefinger, hidden from sight by Shinji and Shiro.

Grimmjow sneered, fang-like teeth glinting as he leaned forward and yanked hard on the strings of his skates, readjusting them for maximum comfort. He quickly looped the laces into a tight figure eight before raising his head and deigning to grace the rest of the team with his often expressed but still much enjoyed opinion.

"Cause he's a tiny guy with a tiny brain that just ate way the fuck too much."

The tension that had formed inside the room seemed to dissipate like steam, instantly forgotten as the room burst into the easy laughter of a long shared sentiment. Grimmjow's smirk widened as someone patted him on the back, and another tapped the top of his helmet, the first arrivals already beginning to move towards the door.

The only person who didn't crack a smile was Ichigo.

**X X X**

The two game announcers bantered back and forth as they skillfully described the play by play action of the third period, bringing the on-ice battles to life for radio listeners and television viewers alike.

"_Jaegerjaquez and Jiruga are going at it like dogs in the corner, both of them fighting to gain control of the puck in the Hollow's zone."_

"_It looks like Jaegerjaquez is trying to dig his way to china."_

"_Yes, it certainly does. Boy, those boys are really going at it."_

"_Well, Jiruga's not a well liked man, and those two have never cared for each other, even when they were teammates... as we saw earlier."_

"_There's no love lost there, that's for sure. And they're finally out of the corner."_

"_Well, Jiruga won that battle, and the puck is back in play. He passes it off to his teammate, Jaegerjaquez hot on his heels..."_

Ichigo watched the sexta from his spot inside the penalty box, already standing and ready to re-enter the fray. He was doing time for fighting. He hadn't started it, but he'd finished it.

Grimmjow poured on power like he had a tank of nos in his skates, and within two seconds he was back in the centre of the play. For a moment, Ichigo felt a deep swell of respect for the bluenet. That's what made him so deadly. He was a demon on the ice. He could match all but the very best speed for speed, and he could pivot on a dime. When Grimmjow had you in his sites, your paper work had better be in order.

The only other man on the ice tonight who was meaner that Grimmjow was Nnoitra Jiruga. He was nearly seven feet of the most concentrated evil in hockey. How the man still managed to stay in the league was mind boggling to Ichigo. In his worst moments, Grimmjow was about as rough as they came, but Jiruga was a fruit of an entirely different color.

He was dirty, and he was sneaky, and he was cruel. Nnoitra watched the refs and chose his moments. He was quick and precise with his movements, bringing up an elbow and using it like a battering ram as he ran rival player's heads into the boards. Nnoitra wasn't even technically an enforcer. He just enjoyed obliterating other players. The dark-haired defence man had ended at least two careers in as many years that Ichigo knew of, and there was little doubt that he'd do it again if given the right opportunity.

The door opened and Ichigo jumped without hesitation back into the mess of players, tearing down the ice towards the play.

Except for the two defence-men, who hung back, the entire Hollow's team seemed to be throwing an impromptu party in the Soul Reaper's defensive zone. They had the puck firmly in their control, and the forwards were biding their time, passing the puck back and forth as they waited for the perfect opening. The Reapers shifted and shimmied on the ice, holding their positions while reaching out for the puck with their sticks, slicing and jabbing, trying to force the Hollow forwards to either make their play or make a mistake.

The crowd roared and boo'd the hated opposing team, and the tension that had built became nearly intolerable for both the fans and the players after a long minute of relative inaction.

And then, finally, a miracle. The Hollows' number four, Ulquiorra Cifer took his chance and wound up for a shot on goal. The crack of a slap shot echoed through the arena. Renji deflected the puck, and Shiro blasted it back down the ice and out of the danger zone. The Hollow's retreated, and the Reaper's followed. The teams swooped across the ice, turning as one, like a school of starving piranha.

As if it had been greased, the puck skidded from player to player, both teams finding it then losing it again. Grimmjow and Ichigo both cut a swath through heavy traffic on the turnarounds. Players seemed to be moving in all directions. With ten men scrambling around the ice, the rink looked like an ant hill caught in the beam of a magnifying glass.

Finally, it was Ichigo's turn to try and hold the puck. He grit his teeth and drove forward. It was hard to keep an eye on all the movements of the players, but he eeked his way towards the Hollow's goal, waiting for a mythical parting of the sea. He wasn't going to lose this time. He was going to make this shot count.

While Ichigo's opponent was rushing up to meet him, across the ice, Grimmjow was contending with Ulquiorra, who was lining him up for an open ice hit. Grimmjow didn't care. He could easily outmanoeuvre the quatra. And from his angle their appeared to be a weak point in the Hollow's defence. And Grimmjow wanted a piece of it.

"Kurosaki! Pass the damn puck, you fucker!" Grimmjow bellowed from across the ice as they skated at breakneck speed towards the two Hollow defence men, while avoiding two team's worth of criss-crossing players.

Ichigo spared the bluenet a brief glance as he powered down the ice. He made a small motion with his stick, faking a pass to the Sexta. It worked to confuse his opponent, and as a delicious bonus, served to tease the insufferable bluenet too. Open or not, there was no way Ichigo was giving up the puck to that asshole. Grimmjow and him were done.

He'd made that decision as he'd nursed his throbbing temples. Whether Grimmjow liked him or not, and whether Grimmjow totalled himself or not, Ichigo couldn't be bothered. If Grimmjow wouldn't listen to him, then Ichigo wasn't going to give him the time of day.

Ichigo raced ahead to meet the solitary player between him and the net. He poured on a burst of speed, and with all the agility of a world class figure skater, skirted around the Hollow with insulting ease. It was like a weight had lifted from his shoulders. Perhaps his decision, and time away from the game and Grimmjow had been good for him.

Grimmjow snarled as he watched Ichigo pull his stick back then snap it forward, firing off a short, hard slap shot that skipped once across the ice as it careened towards the crouching goalie.

Grimmjow powered forward to catch the inevitable rebound, head down as he leaned into the rush. Even without looking, he skirted around Ulquiorra with ease, who was coming at him like a bullet.

He wasn't aware that he'd just made a terrible mistake as he watched the puck sail towards the net.

It was a set up. Number four was just a distraction. The real danger lay right behind him.

_Number one rule in hockey; if you don't want to get seriously injured... always keep your head up._

A moment wouldn't have made a difference. The bluenet was tearing up the ice, his focus and his mind momentarily zeroed in on number fifteen. It wouldn't have mattered if he'd seen the bastard Hollow. He was going way too fast to stop or even change direction in time to avoid the soul shattering collision. There was no time to pull the emergency brake. But if he'd had his head up, he at least could have braced for it.

Grimmjow looked up in time to see nothing but pure white as the Hollow's number five hunched low and bulldozed into him, hitting the bluenet with every bit of force he had and rocking him to his core.

The punishing hit stilled the lungs of the entire arena.

For Grimmjow, it was like a nuclear device had gone off inside his body.

The heart stopping collision took Grimmjow off his feet and sent the upended player ass over teakettle into the air and straight over Nnoitra's lowered shoulder. The bluenet gritted his teeth as pain rocked through his muscles and tightened around his bones. The breath exploded from his lungs, and the world spun out of control as the Reaper's enforcer went airborne, flipping once end over end in an uncontrolled spiral before crashing back to the arena floor with ice like hard cement. It was the kind of devastating hit that would be replayed over and over for days to come.

Grimmjow hit the ice surface hard enough to bounce once before abruptly going limp, his own momentum carrying the stunned player in a slow, lazy spin down the ice on his back, and leaving a trail of random gear strewn behind him.

Stick. Gloves.

Helmet.

The Soul Reapers bench erupted into a furious uproar of angry shouts and curses, hockey sticks striking against the boards in outrage. That the display was unnecessary didn't matter to the irate Reapers, because one of theirs was down and someone needed to pay. The officials were already calling the penalty on the Hollow's number five, and Jiruga wasn't arguing the call.

Nnoitra sneered down at the Reaper's who'd instantly surrounded him like a pack of wild dogs.

"Whatcha gonna do?" he sneered, large white teeth flashing like a creature that would happily eat its own. "You wanna play wit' me too?"

Ikkaku, Shiro and Shuhei Hisagi glared up at the simpering giant. Shiro gave him one hard shove before he felt himself being pulled back.

"He's not worth it," Hisagi muttered.

"Yeah, let the league deal with that piece of shit," Ikaku added, trying to sound objective to cover for their guilty consciences.

If that were anybody else but the sexta laying on the ice, Grimmjow would have taken care of it. It was sad, but Grimmjow was the only one with the rocks to actually challenge Nnoitra directly and not back down.

Jiruga didn't even bother to contest the call against him for the dirty hit. The lanky giant skated casually towards the penalty box, grinning as maliciously as a super villain, his eyes never leaving the man he had just annihilated until he reached the box and stepped inside to wait out his penalty. Nnoitra didn't even concern himself with the notion that a Soul Reaper might retaliate as he headed towards the box. That just never happened. No one dared touch him.

He sneered as he watched the aftermath play out on the cold arena floor, enjoying the sight of the so called sexta lying in a sad heap on the ice. He wondered if he'd managed to break anything, perhaps even end his career. He hoped not, because he'd really love the chance to throw another hit like that one at the blue-haired enforcer again one day.

Nnoitra squinted through the hazy plexiglass. He seemed to still be alive at least, and he had somehow rolled off of his back and now lay curled up on the ice in the foetal position, body jerking in short spasms as he tried to regain his breath. Nnoitra's grin stretched across his long, scarred face.

The sexta was suffering. Probably thought he was dying too. Maybe he was. Nnoitra laughed to himself. The officials were still debating his penalty, looking over the tapes to see if they should kick him out of the game. He hoped he didn't get ejected. He really didn't want to miss the show.

**. . .**

Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez writhed in wordless agony. He was having a hell of a time trying to do what used to come so naturally to him as he lay on his side. He wasn't aware that he'd rolled over, or even which way was up or down. Nothing but breathing mattered. But that position wasn't helping any, and somehow he ended up on his back again.

The ice was cold on the back of his head as he lay gasping and semi conscious from the paralysing hit. Blue eyes stayed slitted open, and the high ceiling seemed many miles away, blurring in and out. Things were hazy, dark... except the pain, as Grimmjow struggled not to black out.

All of the space had been forced from his lungs. His muscles weren't doing what they were supposed to, and he desperately needed air. He felt like he was trapped beneath the rubble of a cave-in, and no amount of force would move his lungs.

Fuck him, he was crying he was fighting so hard to breath. He gasped a few more times, and finally something happened. Air. Not much, but some. Control was starting to return, a little at a time, keeping him from going over the edge and into nothing.

Darkness and light swarmed together over his vision. He couldn't make sense of anything. The world was shadows and blurred movements that hurt his eyes. He brain was vibrating, sounds reaching him in jarring fragments through pulsing chopper blades.

"Give... ...some air. ...Grimmjow. Can you... ...me, Grimmjow?"

The sounds kept hitting him between the beats of the base drum of his skull. They made no sense at all.

" ...your eyes?"

But at least he could breath a bit now. And he could moan.

"Nnnnn..."

**X X X**

**Two minutes ago...**

Ichigo pumped his arm once in celebration as he circled back around behind the net. The buzzer was sounding. Horns were blowing. And the excited fans were screaming out cheers of encouragement, many of them leaping from their seats, beer and nachos spilling in the process. He'd done it. It wouldn't win the game, but he'd finally fucking scored.

Ichigo beamed as he soaked it up. Fans were always with you when you were winning, and Ichigo knew he had to enjoy these moments when he could.

Just as quickly as the crowd reached a crescendo, it fell sharply away to a deeper buzz, one mixed with dwindling cheers and growing murmurs of concern, then to an almost silence. The orangette's smile vanished as he rounded the Hollow's net and saw the reason for the crowd's sudden loss of enthusiasm.

Grimmjow had been levelled.

And he was laying motionless on the ice.

The livings rooms and crowded bars across the country went as deathly quiet as the arena. People rooting for both teams watched with rapt attention and concern, straining to catch every word as the two announcers did their best to give a blow by blow account of the frightening hit and its aftermath. It didn't matter which team the fans were rooting for when a man went down, and the divide wasn't quite so obvious as hockey fans cringed together, united in sympathy.

"_That was one of the hardest hits I've seen in a long time, even coming from a big guy like Jiruga."_

"_Number six, Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez just took a devastating hit from the Hollow's Nnoitra Jiruga. And he is... not moving."_

"_Oh.. Oh mercy."_

"_Two very big, very strong men colliding... Let's go to the replay to see just what happened there... ... And here's the hit. Oooh. Jaegerjaquez made a big mistake."_

"_Yeah. Yeah. See. He had his head down. You just can't do that, because this is what happens."_

"_He didn't even have a chance to brace himself. They're both big guys. All that speed. All that weight. He was caught right in the centre of the perfect storm."_

"_You can see in the replay that Jiruga tucks low and gets his shoulder right in there. He clearly meant to do him damage."_

"_Oh, definitely. And a dirty, dirty hit. Jiruga's not trying to separate Jaegerjaquez from the puck here. His intent was to separate him from his consciousness."_

"_Yup. He lined him up. He sized him up. He laid him out."_

"_And number six comes down like a tonne of bricks onto the ice. If we slow it right down we see that he manages to get his hands out before he lands on his left shoulder, but he still hits the side of his face and loses his helmet... Oh. I cringe seeing this."_

"_I don't think he managed anything. I think it was just dumb luck that his arms got in the way or else he'd be in an even bigger world of hurt than he's in right now."_

"_And we still don't really know how bad this is."_

"_It seems that... oh... and number six is moving now, but he appears to be in distress. It's hard to tell if he's in pain or if he's had the wind knocked out of him."_

"_Let's just hope it was the latter."_

"_He's definitely smarting but he seems to be... gasping or convulsing. I can't tell but... Oh dear. This is hard to watch. He is in serious trouble right now."_

"_The officials are already calling for a stretcher. And... oh, there is blood on the ice as well. He's coughing up blood.."_

"_Oh, not good. Let's hope it's just a cut."_

"_Medical staff from both teams are our there right now and are checking him out, and they'll assess the situation as promptly as possible."_

"_There is some major concern going on right now for Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez... here in Seireitei tonight."_

"_For anyone just tuning in, the Reapers' number fifteen, Kurosaki Ichigo, just scored a great goal, but right at the edge of the play one of his teammates, Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez, got taken down and has made no move to get up. Kurosaki and Grimmjow are the infamous two Reaper's who actually managed to get into a fist fight in the middle of a game just before Christmas."_

"_If we go back to the replay... it appears that Jaegerjaquez's attention was on Kurosaki just before the hit. It looks like number fifteen faked a pass to his teammate right beforehe scored. The fact that those two have had considerable disagreements in their first season together is well known. But Kurosaki is hovering close by and appears to be quite concerned. You gotta wonder what's going on in his head right now."_

"_Indeed. This is a bad turn of events for the Reapers and for Jaegerjaquez. We can only keep our fingers crossed here."_

**. . .**

Ichigo skated over to the fallen bluenet and stood just outside the inner circle of players and medical personnel, trying not to appear as concerned as he felt. Apparently he failed miserably because Kaien Shiba was suddenly leaning against him, shoulder to shoulder, a breezy smile plastered across his face.

"Man it looks like a yard sale out here," the defence-man quipped as he took in the scattered equipment.

Kaien pulled back on his bright edged smile, replacing it with something more sincere as he took in the anxious look on Ichigo's face. He nudged the younger man in the arm.

"Oh, he'll be alright," he coaxed. "Grimmjow can take a hit."

It was a half-hearted attempt at best to lighten the grim mood. Conscious or not, Grimmjow had a serious case of scrambled eggs going on, and a trip to the hospital was going to be unavoidable. It didn't help that guys like Grimmjow turned into giant babies when they were injured, not babies that didn't want to play, but the kind that stayed stubbornly on the bench, refusing to sit out or take help when it was offered. Sometimes a kick in the ass was needed to make a player leave the game and get medical attention. Hockey was a rough game and in situations like this, the players' health was always a priority.

Ichigo's stomach felt pinched. Like he'd been shot in the gut with a staple gun. This was the kind of hit nobody ever wanted to see, no matter who the player. Grimmjow could have a concussion, or broken bones, or even internal injuries. That shit happened. Kaien was trying to reassure him that Grimmjow would be fine, that he wasn't dying in front his teammates. But he looked so pale, distressed and out of it, just like people who'd been rushed into his father's clinic and hadn't made it through. And the spatter of blood on the ice was even less reassuring.

While he waited for Grimmjow to die, he glanced up at the screen overhead which was replaying the incident. What he saw took the air from his lungs. He saw Grimmjow do a half gainer before coming down headfirst and smacking his face on the ice. Ichigo paled. Now that he'd seen the hit for himself, he marvelled that Grimmjow was even moving. He never could have absorbed something like that himself.

Ichigo turned his eyes back to the real Grimmjow in front of him. He could still see the man's chest heaving, and the crowd had quieted enough that Ichigo could just make out the disturbing desperate noises Grimmjow was making as he tried to regain control over his spasming diaphragm.

He could see that his eyes were cracked open, a shock of blue sapphire peeking out, but he could tell he wasn't truly seeing. In fact, Grimmjow looked panicked. And Ichigo's insides were fast becoming hysterical right alongside him. Nothing about the image in front of Ichigo looked right. Grimmjow wasn't supposed to be struggling like that. He was tough, and hard headed, practically forged from the fiery core of the earth. The world wasn't right when the bluenet looked so helpless.

Ichigo mentally slapped himself. It probably looked worse than it was. Hopefully, the impact had just knocked the wind out of him, his nervous system momentarily paralysed by the crushing hit. And the blood was probably a just a cut.

So what if he looked like something stuck to the side of the highway. It was a common sight for hockey players who were hit hard to go down with limbs raised, giving them the affect of looking like day old road kill. Grimmjow's right arm hung suspended in the air, raised vertically at the elbow as he lay there gasping.

But he was in good hands now. The team's trainers and doctor had slid their way across the ice with the aid of two Soul Reapers. When they finally reached the prone player, Grimmjow's arm had begun to move, raising and then lowering partway to the ice in a parody of a wave. In his mind he was probably trying to get up, but the hapless player's body clearly had a whole other set of plans.

A few players crowded loosely around the downed player, purposely hindering the cameras that were zoomed in on the scene, while the team's personal physician worked with the bluenet, leaning in tightly and talking to him. After a minute, the doctor leaned back and signalled towards the bench. They needed the stretcher.

Grimmjow wasn't responding normally.

**. . .**

Grimmjow brushed irritably at the offending hands, refusing to let himself be picked up off the ice like some helpless infant.

"Jaegerjaquez, quit fighting," the doctor ordered firmly. "We need to get you on the stretcher."

As much as Grimmjow wanted to get up, they weren't going to let him. But bell rung or not, Grimmjow wasn't interested in the doctor's advice and paid him no attention. Instead, he rolled suddenly onto his front using his weight to slip out of the grasp of the doctor, gathering his forearms beneath him and pushing himself up.

He made it as far as all fours before he felt his limbs begin to tremble violently, threatening to drop him back onto the hard surface. Gravity had taken on new meaning to the struggling bluenet. There seemed to be a lot more of it around than what he was used to, and no amount of effort seemed to be enough to raise himself up. He slid back down onto his stomach and groaned in frustration, shrugging off more hands from his shoulder.

"Get off me. M'fine," he slurred. He just needed to give it one more try.

"Grimmjow. You need to lay still. You could have fractured vertebrae and..."

"F- Fuck off. I ain't... broken," he snapped, forehead hovering just above the ice. His eyelids felt lead weighted, and he let them close (just for a moment). Then he suddenly realized that he wasn't even sure why he was on the ground and why it was so important for him to get up.

A snide voice chimed in from somewhere above him.

"See? He's already his old charming self."

He forced them to open and grunted in warning. He was dying, and someone was being a fucking comedian?

"Ya _know_ the only way you're gonna get Grimmjow on that board is if you knock him back unconscious," a second familiar voice added, sounding closer than the one before it.

There was a quiet "I got this", followed by a much too cheerful, "Upsy daisy," as a strong arm swooped in beneath Grimmjow's armpit and tightened around his bicep. Grimmjow glance blearily towards the voice, still half trying to figure out who was attempting to rouse him at this ungodly hour, until he was distracted by the pull of a second arm catching him from the other side and slowly hoisting him up.

He didn't resist when he felt himself being raised.

"There we go, big fella. We gotcha." The mysterious good Samaritans took their time, raising him with the same dignity and delicate care that would be shown to a fragile artifact being hoisted up from an ancient wreck resting on the ocean floor.

His helpers were about as gentle as they knew how to be, but the upward motion still hit him like a two-by-four. And then he opened his eyes.

Whoa. Too fast. Too fast.

"H-up." Grimmjow swallowed hard, forcing his stomach to hold onto its contents as a blurry sea of obnoxiously loud people spun lazily around him. He squeezed his eyes shut and blew out several quick breaths trying to calm his insides before he did throw up.

"Easy Grim." The voice in his ear sounded concerned, caring. If they really cared, they'd let him sit the fuck down, or else he'd be doing the technicolour yawn. But wait, he'd wanted up hadn't he? He had to get somewhere, didn't he?

Oh fuck. The pulsing and pressure inside his head proved that there was still blood in there, but there didn't seem to be enough to work his brain. Things were going from fuzzy to downright blank. He couldn't think, and it was beginning to scare him. That must have been some bender. He didn't go on many of those, and he couldn't remember anything from last night at all. He was kind of thankful that he had such good friends that they were actually helping him into bed. He just wished all the idiots making a ruckus would take it down a notch.

Several things suddenly struck him at once. What was with all the people anyway? And what were they all doing in his bedroom? Nobody was supposed to be in his bedroom.

He frowned as he felt his feet begin to slide beneath him. His floor was slippery. Had he spilled something on it? It didn't feel like water, more like sliding on ice. No. Not _like_ ice. He _was_ on ice. Was it winter? Yeah, it was. But in his room? Wait. He was... hockey... he was playing hockey. Now someone was holding him up. He must have gotten hurt or something.

A small surge of relief flooded him as he began to pull the shattered pieces of his mind back together. But just as he did, they seemed to want to float away again. Thoughts were slippery, hard to hold onto, but he knew one thing for certain at least. Everything was still attached, his arms, his legs, his head, his face. He knew that for a fact, because they all fucking hurt. His left temple was thumping a chorus line in time with the side of his face and his shoulder. And it hurt to breath, as if every muscle remotely involved in the process had been mashed into a painful pulp.

Like cars at a race track, the pieces of his memory were circling back again. He was on the ice, playing hockey, and he was being helped up because he... because... he... had been run over by the Zamboni.

Hah. That was it. Nailed it.

While Grimmjow tried to gather up his brain cells, which were scattered across the floor of his mind like children's building blocks, Nnoitra Jiruga was receiving a suspension.

The crowd hissed and booed as Jiruga exited the penalty box, giving him less than the send off he deserved. He was getting a five minute major for his illegal hit, to be served by the rest of the team, and a match penalty for deliberately injuring the Reapers' enforcer. Ichigo mentally applauded as he watched Nnoitra leave the penalty box. He got caught. He wasn't so smooth this time, and he was as good as gone. He watched number five skate to the exit. He was going away for the night. He was done. That was for the best. Ichigo wanted nothing more than to sink his fist into Nnoitra Jiruga's head for this, and it would certainly end badly all around if he acted on that impulse.

Nnoitra gone, Ichigo turned his attention back to where it needed to be. Grimmjow was up and moving now and he seemed slightly more aware than he had been minutes ago. In fact, for a man who had just taken an unscheduled nap, the stubborn bluenet was nearly as chock full of piss and vinegar as ever, griping over the unnecessary fuss they were making of him, arguing that he didn't need their help, then mumbling that he would be good to go in a couple of minutes. Yeah. He was fine. He was fine.

"Just need... ta sit... on th'bench fer a min," he mumbled, "an' I'll be good ta go... fuckin' driver."

His two escorts exchanged worried looks. Grimmjow was right out of it. He didn't even seem to realize that he wasn't being guided back to the bench.

No one would ever argue that Grimmjow couldn't talk a good game, but the weight the two players were now being forced to hold up was a testament to just how badly the bluenet felt. He was breathing like he was in labour, clearly nauseous, likely concussed, and in the short time it took for the trio to reach the open door that led out of the rink, Grimmjow had begun to slump. Shiro turned and signalled with his head to the medical staff who were trailing right behind them. They were going to need that stretcher after all.

The crowd had begun to clap and cheer their Sexta on as they watched number six stagger numbly to his feet while two Reapers slowly helped lift the unsteady player from the ice and began to glide him towards the exit on the far side of the arena. It looked like a small parade as the team doctor, assistants and empty stretcher trailed closely behind the unsteady threesome.

While the crowd cheered and applauded, the players slapped their sticks against the ice and the bench to show their support as well. Some of the fans were even pumping their arms in the air as a song burst out through the speakers and the chorus for David Guetta's "Titanium" boomed through the stadium.

_**I'm bulletproof, nothing to lose**__**  
**__**Fire away, fire away**__**  
**__**Ricochet, you take your aim**__**  
**__**Fire away, fire away**_

_**You shoot me down but I won't fall  
I am titanium  
You shoot me down but I won't fall  
I am titanium**_

Grimmjow winced as a loud noise suddenly thundered around him, an unearthly voice jangling every sensitive nerve inside his aching body. He didn't realize they were playing his unofficial anthem, a salute in his honour, that they were showing him their admiration and affection.

He didn't realize.

And if he had, he wouldn't have cared. He just wanted all the goddamn noise to shut the fuck off. His entire body, and his head was no exception, felt like it had been crushed with a giant pestle and ground into a grainy paste.

The near seizure-inducing electronic beat that followed sent Grimmjow's aching head throbbing its way into new levels of agony. Why didn't the fuckers just throw a load of bricks into as burlap sack and beat him over the head with it? Everything he'd eaten today was on its way back up again and they were all gonna regret it if they didn't settle down. He ducked his head and squeezed his eyes shut, giving up his trust to his team mates, while he let himself be guided blindly along the ice.

Ichigo skated along behind the action, veering off towards the players bench with a tight feeling in his gut. The music was a nice sentiment, but by the pained expression on his face, they weren't doing Grimmjow any favours by blaring a song in his honour. That was one serious hit he had taken to be this shaken up. And Ichigo couldn't dislodge the feeling that he was more than partially responsible for Grimmjow's trip to emerg.

Never mind that they'd recently scrapped during a game. Things really were out of control when shit like this started to happen. Someone was going to get seriously hurt one day. Or maybe they already had. And Ichigo didn't want to have his career ended over their joint stupidity. And he was fully surprised to realize, as he sat down on the bench, that he didn't really want to bear witness to Grimmjow's unscheduled retirement either.

As soon as the game was over, and the coach was done yelling at him, and he most certainly would, Ichigo was heading home to think some things over. And if Grimmjow was still stuck in the hospital tomorrow, (as he assuredly would be) Ichigo would have to pay him a visit, if for no other reason than to settle his already guilty conscience.

Ichigo's brows knit together as he rested his chin on the back of his gloved hands while the ice was cleared of fallen Reaper's and scattered equipment. On top of his concern for the general welfare of his team mate, Ichigo felt the familiar rise of anger towards the bluenet. Grimmjow was a genuine idiot for refusing to get on that stretcher. He could have broken bones and not even be aware of it.

Dumb.

But of course, Grimmjow would never have the good sense to stay down. Even when his usual poor sense had been knocked out of him.

And the guys had let him get up.

Ichigo fumed on the bench. He was going to chew them a new one for that. He didn't care if it wasn't his place. They may have been well meaning, but it was just plain stupid putting Grimmjow at risk like that, no matter how stubborn he had been. Ichigo would have brained the bluenet himself if he'd been the team's doctor. He wouldn't have put up with that bullshit.

Ichigo stared up at the enormous screen hanging over centre ice and winced as he finally saw the entire replay. All the fight that had been pumping through his system a moment ago dwindled to shame as he realized that he had, in fact, put up with that. He'd just stood there in a daze watching everything happen wrongly in front of him.

He hadn't stepped up at all.

It wasn't like him. His own father was a doctor, and Ichigo had spent enough time helping out at his father's clinic to know how a patient should be treated, and he was well aware of the injuries that hockey players sustained and the routines that were set in place to minimize further injuries. And he hadn't acted.

He pulled his gaze from the images on the screen and hung his head as another shock wave of guilt slammed into him. Just add it to the list.


	16. Chapter 16

I apologize for posting this. I don't usually snap like this. And, if this person is true to their word, then they probably won't see it anyway. But on the off chance that they do, **Blue Note**, this is for you.

**X X X**

_Blue Note 4/14/13 . chapter 15:__  
__Fifteen chapters and not even a kiss ... I feel like I'm in the teen reading section.__  
__I don't particularly care for sports, and this one has long since lost its siren call for me. I've enjoyed reading your stories in the past, J-Blue, but this one has too much hockey, too little everything else. For me, I mean. I'm sure there are sports-minded people who are all about this one, but it's just not for me._

**X X X**

Now I didn't find this review abusive, and I can handle someone who quits reading a story. I do that too.

What I DON'T do is tell them their story is too long and boring and lacks what I'm looking for and that I don't even enjoy the setting of the story.

What I DON'T do, is leave a review without signing in so that the author cannot even respond to my "review".

What Blue Note DID do was choose to leave this review telling me they're abandoning my story, when at no point did they ever leave a review telling me they were enjoying it. _(if they did, i missed it and offer my sincerest apologies)_

Nor did they ever leave a review telling me that they were beginning to feel that it was dragging on, or attempt to point out things that weren't working for them.

That, I could have accepted.

Why?

Because THAT'S WHAT REVIEWS ARE FOR!

...CONSTRUCTIVE FEEDBACK FOR EACH CHAPTER, LETTING THE AUTHOR KNOW WHAT'S GOOD AND WHAT'S NOT WORKING.

THAT, I WOULD HAVE APPRECIATED. THIS ONLY MADE ME FEEL HURT.

My dear Blue Note: Next time, if you never bothered to say anything kind or helpful along the way, and still have nothing kind or helpful to say, just leave and keep your damn thoughts to yourself.

Junichiblue

* * *

**NOTE: If you're reading this now, no need to comment. My rant, and the ensuing (and surprising) supportive comments I received made me feel better (like gold to be exact). I'm only leaving this up now because I believe if I take it down, all those wonderful people's remarks will be lost. And if I simply replace the rant with the next chapter, no one will be alerted. So yeah, moving on now! ^^)**

**Junichiblue Apr 22, 13.**


	17. Chapter 17

**This chapter, like so many of the others, has been mostly finished since last year. I've just been stroking it and petting it and fluffing it up until I was happy. I'm relatively happy now... so let's go with that.**

**I'm also still pretty much at a loss for useful words for your kind support. One thing I appreciate about ffnet is when somebody gets put down, people rally like pros. I really was content enough at the time to just fire off a rant. But still... so many thanks for that. *bows until back gives out***

**Note: Petra means stone. And, we have a Russian accent here. So, remember to make your V's and W's slide together and to roll your R's. Because there was no way I was going to try to write out an entire accent. And although I did write her with an accent earlier, I don't believe I made it very clear. My bad. ^_^**

**Enjoy.**

**Junichiblue**

* * *

**CHAPTER 16**

Ichigo awoke to the glare of the mid-morning sun hitting his face, long ribbons of liquid light cutting a brazen, dusty swath across his room, bending and creeping their way along the rolling landscape of his covers, warming them up, and until now, keeping their contents in a deep sleep.

As the bright light turned the insides of his darkened lids into glowing red embers, Ichigo mumbled something to the sun that no one would normally hear him say.

It wasn't the sun's fault, though. He had been so exhausted physically and mentally, that by the time he'd turned in last night, he'd forgotten to close the blinds of his bedroom window. And when he reached for the alarm clock that he'd also forgotten to set, and lifted it up to check the time, he groaned in disbelief. The sunbeams had been creeping their way up his bed for hours.

Ichigo lay there for a moment. And as his faculties returned, so did the memories of last nights' game. But they didn't just roll in, gentle and soothing like the welcome brush of lapping waves.

No. They were right where he'd left them before succumbing to a fitful sleep late last night; smacking him hard and wet across the face. And it stung.

Ichigo ground the base of his palms against his eyes and dragged them down over his cheeks, pushing the stubborn vestiges of sleep away. He inhaled a deep sigh before letting it back out. He wondered how he could have slept in so late when he had such important things to do today. It was already more than midway through the morning, and he'd been expecting a call from Kensei as soon as the man knew anything about their injured teammate. He should have called by now.

He let his wrist fall across his alarm clock and rest there, tendons straining between fine bones while his fingers felt blindly around the bedside table for his phone.

Ah. There is was. A few pressed buttons. A squint. And sure enough, he had several messages. Two of them were from his family. And the other was from Kensei. His empty stomach did a quiet flip as he brought the phone to his ear to listen to the message. A moment later, he replaced his phone on the table, a small frown of determination working its way into his tired but handsome features. Kensei's message had been short and simple, and not very informative at all..

"_Yo, Kurosaki. It's Kensei. Don't tell me you're still in bed? I'm at the hospital. I'm here for a bit, so... text me when you're on your way, and I'll meet you. ...Bye."_

Ichigo sighed long and hard, forearm thrown across his forehead, and after a careful stretch, he rolled out of bed with all the agility of an eighty year old man. He cursed when his feet hit the floor, then limped his way into a hot shower, his pronounced morning erection bobbing along in time with his steps with buoyant indifference to the cool air of his apartment. Ichigo ignored the stiff piece of flesh, it being much less about sex than its presence would suggest. On any other day, he might be inclined to stay in bed and manhandle it into submission, but not today. If left alone, it would sort itself out without his laying hands on it.

When he reached the bathroom, Ichigo didn't spare himself more than a passing glance in the mirror. He knew he had a red mark on his forehead from where his helmet had met the partition. And the other marks and bruises needed no inspection. But they _would _ need a touch of concealer.

A minute later, he stepped into a scalding shower, hoping the pounding spray would ease his sore muscles and calm his rising nerves, and he didn't emerge until the water had turned lukewarm.

Feeling somewhat human again, Ichigo towelled off then replied to Kensei's message. He ran a dryer quickly through his hair then padded back to his room and checked his messages again.

He was supposed to meet Kensei _on the third floor by the main nursing station and to relax because everything was fine._

Funny how his stomach disagreed.

He threw on a pair of loose, smokey-grey, stone-washed jeans, a dark brown belt with extra length that hung down against his thigh, and a black long-sleeve shirt. His bright orange hair, now clean and dry, stood wild and carefree with its trademark rebellious spikes, adding to his already tall, lean stature. He gave himself a once over before grabbing his keys and his jacket, and finding himself presentable, headed out. By the time he left it was just past noon.

**X X X**

When Ichigo arrived on the hospital floor which housed his teammate's room, he hesitated, hanging back against the mirrored wall of the large elevator while other passengers disembarked. But the silver doors seemed to wait for him, and he breathed a resigned sigh. He wasn't the only one to be feeling anxious in a place like this. Everyone was here to see somebody.

Ichigo pushed off the wall and slipped between the doors as they closed. He stepped out of the elevator and made his way down the hall, passing by strangers who gave him varying looks of recognition, until he was finally met with a familiar pleasant smile.

"Kurosaki, you made it." Kensei Muguruma sauntered towards him, his finger already climbing to his upturned lips. "Big guy's asleep."

Ichigo brightened a fraction, then nodded and returned what he hoped passed as a genuine smile.

"How is he?" he asked. "Did you talk to him?" Ichigo snapped his mouth shut, a bit chagrined when he realized that he'd damn near blurted his questions and let his worry show through, because Kensei's grin faded to a softer smile, and he sobered.

"Relax, Kurosaki. He's fine." Kensei could almost hear Ichigo's breath catch and release as the younger man stepped up to him. "And no. He was awake early this morning, but he's been out cold since I got here."

Ichigo's eyes dropped to the floor as he took the information in. Grimmjow was asleep. And probably not waking up any time soon. Damn. Ichigo had got up this morning feeling somewhat duty-bound but also full of determination, ready to make peace with Grimmjow. But now, suddenly, the feeling was pouring out of his heart and down into his knees at the prospect of having to come back and prepare to face him all over again. And he hadn't even seen him yet.

If Kensei noticed that Ichigo had become a bit distracted, he didn't outwardly express it. Instead, he continued to fill the young man in on the bluenet's condition.

"He's a little roughed up, but... he'll pull through." Ichigo's head came up and he nodded. "Anyway, he won't be seeing ice any time soon, but once he finds that out, I'm sure he'll find a way to mend himself at inhuman speeds." Kensei chuckled. "He always does."

Ichigo tried to conjure a smile but he really didn't see the humour in it yet. Perhaps Kensei could explain that part to him too.

"So... how long are they keeping him?" he asked, turning and letting his back come to rest against the wall beside the enforcer's private room.

"Well, he's under observation for a mild concussion. He was a little punchy last night and early this morning, but he's doing fine. And if he doesn't show any signs of confusion tonight, they'll discharge him tomorrow." Ichigo nodded dumbly as he processed the simple information.

Kensei leaned forward and gave Ichigo a conspiratory smile.

"He's gonna be pissed about them waking him up all night again, though." The silver-haired man let out an obnoxiously loud laugh, drawing a reluctant but bona-fide smile from Ichigo, and a hushing sound from the nurse who was just entering Grimmjow's room.

Still smiling, Kensei signalled to Ichigo with a nod and began to stroll at a snail's pace down the hall as he talked. Ichigo glanced back at the open door, craning his neck as he followed suit, but it was too dark inside to see much of anything as it closed behind the nurse. The young forward turned away and thrust his hands as deep into his jacket pockets as they would go, and with a few hurried steps, caught up with his captain.

"If he's sleeping, I should wait until tomorrow and get him at home," he muttered.

"Ah, ah, ahhh." Kensei's waggling finger was suddenly up in Ichigo's face, forcing his eyes to cross until he growled and swatted it down like a buzzing fly. "You're here now. You should just _stay_ and wait until he wakes up."

"Yeah, but, if he feels like shit, he isn't going to want to see _me_, and he isn't gonna listen to..."

"Doesn't matter. It would be a hell of a gesture, Ichigo." Kensei pinned him with a meaningful look as they moved further down the hall, passing several rooms in the process.

"Well, that _is_ why I'm here," he defended, patience suddenly running short, although he wasn't quite sure why.

"Really? And where are your flowers?" Kensei stopped and dipped to one side, then the other, mock searching Ichigo for signs of floral decor.

"_Keh." That_ was why. Ichigo shot a tired look towards the ceiling before he levelled it at Kensei, along with a halfhearted scowl. "Very funny. I don't think Grimmjow's the kind of guy who appreciates flowers, especially from me."

"You're right. Forget flowers." Kensei turned his sharp grey eyes towards the orangette, the creases at their corners giving them a hint of mischief. "The best gift you can give Grimmjow right now is someone to beat up on when he wakes up. And you're just the man for the job."

Ichigo gave Kensei a look that would have melted lesser men.

"Well, he _does_ have a concussion, _Ichigo_," the older man chided. "Blistering headache, nausea, dizziness..."

Kensei ignored the answering silence as he rattled off the unpleasant symptoms of a blow to the head.

"Oh, _and_ he's got some bruising in his chest and in his shoulder." He poured on the details while his hands provided the younger man with a clear visual, travelling to his own chest and left shoulder, then trailing upward. "And uhh..." he shrugged, "well his face of course."

Ichigo cringed as he wondered what damage may have been done there. Despite Grimmjow's penchant for wearing his war wounds, the care he took in styling that outrageous head of hair spoke volumes. Grimmjow obviously cared about his looks to some degree. And so did Ichigo. To some degree.

They continued their crawl down the corridor. Kensei didn't bother to ask Ichigo why he was especially concerned with the blue-haired enforcer's health when they fought _so_ much. The tightness in the young forward's jawline told him what he needed to know.

Instead, he went on to explain their teammate's injuries in detail, no longer trying to rub things in, but being quick and clean.

Initially, the doctors had been concerned that Grimmjow may have a partial separation of the collar bone and shoulder blade from his awkward landing, but that had been ruled out. He did have a mild concussion, though, and some deep bruising in his shoulder and chest. But all that was required for him to be back on his feet was a few days of rest. And the blood... had been from where Grimmjow's teeth had bitten through the skin inside his cheek as he'd hit the ice.

Kensei watched the young forward absorb the information. Ichigo's relief was almost palpable, and yet he was still as tense as a fly in a room full of spiders.

But when Kensei had added his own personal comment on the stitches Grimmjow had received, Ichigo had forgotten his annoyance and guilt and instead outright laughed, hastily covering his mouth with his hand in self preservation when a passing nurse gave him a devastating glare.

"He's got a couple a stitches in there." He winked and leaned into Ichigo's shoulder. "You think if we paid 'em extra they'd do the rest of it too?"

It didn't feel right to be making jokes at the bluenet's expense, but Ichigo knew the two men were tight, and that anything derogatory that Kensei might say about Grimmjow would be backed with affection.

Satisfied that he'd manage to both annoy and loosen up the young orangette, Kensei shook Ichigo's hand and pulled him in for a quick and loose, one-armed hug. Ichigo wasn't quite prepared for it, but he accepted the gesture nonetheless. It was Kensei's way of saying everything was cool between them. And despite the relief he felt overall, he still must have looked to Kensei like he needed it.

And here he thought he'd been holding his clamouring insides together quite well.

Ichigo walked slowly back down the hall to room number twenty one with his hands buried inside his jacket pockets. He fingered the chain that held the keys to his car like a rosary. At least now he knew that Grimmjow's injuries hadn't been as severe as everyone had feared. But he wouldn't truly feel better until he'd seen him for himself.

**X X X**

Ichigo stepped quietly into the room, then stopped in the open doorway, stilled by the sight that was laid out before him.

It's not that it wasn't what he was expecting to see. But even with his experience at his father's clinic, he still hadn't quite been prepared for it. Patients off the street, strangers, were one thing, but it was different when it was someone you cared about. And to some degree, that _was_ the word for it.

_Shit_.

Ichigo closed his eyes, one fist tightened against his side, blunt nails digging into his palm, while the other still clung to the cold steel knob of the door. Because letting go would mean stepping in. And really, he didn't know what he was stepping into.

The Reaper's number six, the feared sexta, lay unconscious... or asleep, Ichigo reminded himself... in a bed tucked away to the left of the door that seemed to have formed some sort of force field which had immobilized Ichigo's feet.

Since he didn't feel capable of moving just yet, Ichigo studied the dimly lit room and it's occupant from the doorway, wide brown eyes, bloated from the dark, absorbing every unlit detail of the patient's surroundings that they could, assessing the scene in front of him.

After a moment, he felt his lungs relax into a silent exhale. It wasn't that bad, really. It all looked routine, the wires, the lights, the stillness. But, as ill-bred and graceless as he could be much of the time, hell most of the time, it just wasn't right to see the shatterproof enforcer... so alert, so animated... lying in such quiet repose. Especially in a place like this.

Ichigo closed his eyes for a moment to avoid the unnatural sight.

Grimmjow was all gas, no brakes. But the brakes were hit so hard now, they were smoking. Ichigo wished Kensei hadn't talked him into staying. Tomorrow would have been better. Standing here alone was just... Ichigo wasn't good at losing things that mattered.

Instead he turned his senses towards the simple, steady tone of a heart monitor, sound turned down so low as to be nearly inaudible against the hushed voices and random sounds from the hall behind him.

When he opened his eyes again, he resumed his careful study of the room and its contents. The head of the bed had been raised at a low incline, giving Ichigo a slanted view of the right side of Grimmjow's face, his head fallen to the side in his slumber. As his eyes adjusted to the shadows, he could see that this side at least looked alright, unmarred for the most part by bruises and cuts. And as Kensei had stated, he looked to be sleeping, breathing on his own, chest rising in a slow, steady rhythm.

The rails were up, he noted, obviously to keep their patient from rolling too far over and tumbling onto the floor. Did that mean he was disoriented? Or was it a good sign, meaning he was active and moving around?

He thought he'd feel _better_ once he'd seen that Grimmjow was alive and alright, but Ichigo was suddenly filled with more concern than ever now that he was here. He had so many questions and no one to answer them, so many things to say and no one to listen. Grimmjow looked so vulnerable, so fragile, and it made Ichigo's stomach twist uncomfortably. This right here, this was his fault, and he wanted to make everything alright. But what the hell could he do? Nothing of course. Absolutely nothing.

"Dammit," he whispered.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice broke the silence.

"Are you going to stand there all day? Come in. Come in. "

Ichigo stepped around the door and let it close behind him.

"Don't be afraid. You will not wake him."

A very small woman, skin well worn and body frailed by time, sat on a chair to his right. She smiled up at him. Her voice, crackled with age, yet still gentle and warm, was laden with a thick Russian accent. She spoke slowly, almost lazily, tongue rolling into growls against the back of her throat.

"Uh. Hello." Ichigo swallowed. He had no idea who this elderly woman was, but she had the second-brightest blue eyes he'd ever seen.

"It's just _little_ bump on the head." She waved her hand dismissively, but Ichigo could see the subtle lines of tension set around her mouth. Whatever her relation to the bluenet may be, grandmother perhaps, it seemed more to Ichigo like the face of a worried parent. Yeah, he knew that look. He had one of his own after all.

"Few days off," she continued, still waving her hand in the air, "and he will be fine. He just sleeps now."

"Oh. That's... good news." Ichigo replied, nodding his support as he caught her eye. He didn't buy it, the way she tried to casually wave it off. She was scared, but she refused to let it show. "So, they're just keeping Grimmjow overnight for observation then?" he probed.

"My Grimmjow is tough boy. Mmm? Hard boiled... mmm no... hard _headed_ like his father." She made a fist and gently rapped it against the side of her own head, a wicked gleam in her eye.

Ichigo just couldn't help but smile at her. And she had it right the first time.

"Are you his... uh...?" Ichigo exhaled in relief as the old woman - she looked to be in her seventies or eighties - saved him from the social faux pas of guessing her relation. She looked like his grandmother, but one could never be sure of these things. And Ichigo was known for putting his foot deeply in it... on occasion.

"I am Grimmjow's mother, Petra Jaegerjaquez."

His mother?

"Really?" Ichigo couldn't help but openly glance back and forth between the silent Grimmjow and the elderly woman in the chair. "He's... so young," he managed finally.

_You're so old..._ is what he wanted to say.

"Yes. Yes. I know. Grimmjow was _big_ surprise. I had him when I was fifty six, would you believe?"

"Wow." That would put her in her eighties, Ichigo realized.

"Yes. He is _gift_ from God."

"..."

Ichigo blinked.

_Gift?... From God?_

He fought to swallow a shit eating grin and a burst of laughter that he was certain would be "misinterpreted" by the Jaegerjaquez matriarch. And he definitely didn't want to insult her.

He knew what she meant. Of course he did. It was just so funny, though. He was pretty sure he'd heard Grimmjow spout the exact same thing about himself on a near constant basis.

"It's not possible they said. But, the proof is in the pudding, yes?" She regarded her sleeping son with a proud smile. "He was meant to be. My big blue angel."

_Angel? Oh, please. Stop! She was killing him._

Ichigo balled up a fist and used it to cover the wide grin that he couldn't hold back this time around. This was too much.

The old woman shook her head and stood slowly from the chair, supporting herself with her hands and stretching her lower back until it audibly cracked.

"Ah. Where is my head. You must be Ichigo." She thrust out her hand, and Ichigo automatically picked it up. She had a firm handshake for such a sweet old lady. "My Grimmjow, he talks about you all thee time."

Ichigo blinked as if a flashbulb had just gone off in his eyes. _What?_

"He does?" His voice was quiet and laced with subtle suspicion, and he felt himself straighten, head cocking slightly in disbelief.

"All thee time." She graced him with warm smile.

"Huh. Well... uh... all good I hope," Ichigo laughed nervously and rubbed the back of his head as he felt himself pink slightly across the cheeks at the kind old woman's words.

Maybe he should be calling security? She might be crazy. Or she might be telling Ichigo the truth. Either way, it made him uncomfortable, to say the least, to think that Grimmjow talked about him to his mother.

Petra Jaegerjaquez smiled as she stepped away from her seat and stopped directly beside Ichigo, her face beaming up at him from several feet below. She placed one wrinkled hand on Ichigo's arm before giving him a small sigh and a gentle nod of her head. She looked up again and answered, lips pursed and eyes nearly hidden beneath furrowed brows.

"As good as you are going to get, coming from my Grimmjow."

Ichigo gave a small nod in understanding. So... not good then. But as good as he was going to get. He tilted his head to the other side, genuine curiosity winning out over the growing need to forget this entire conversation.

"He really talks about me?" he asked quietly as he studied the woman, searching her features for similarities to the sleeping bluenet. Other than her eye colour, he really didn't see it.

"Of course." The elderly woman raised her hand and gestured at the air. "You are teammates. He says you have big amount of talent, that you will be star player. Then he calls you _list_ of bad names." She shrugged and pulled a face that said 'what can you do'.

"Grimmjow tells me often that he is confused about you. He says he cannot figure out how to work with you, and he doesn't know what to do."

Her head tilted to the side, and she gestured with her shoulders and upright palms, shrugging with each declaration.

"He says you get hit, you can't shoot. He protects you, you still can't shoot. So he shoots, and _he_ can't shoot. He says he feels like he is banging head against wall."

Ichigo waited, trying to make sense of the mind altering information. But he wasn't sure that he could. It just seemed so surreal.

"I tell you, he has become insufferable. I try to avoid subject now. All thee time, he goes on and on, Ichigo, Ichigo, Ichigo. And now I can see why." She laughed as she leaned back and made a show of studying him from head to toe. "You have gotten under my boy's skin."

Ichigo felt his eyebrows hit his hairline, and he was sure his eyes nearly detached from their optical nerves and landed on the floor at the old woman's outrageous comment and open look of approval. She clearly had bats in her belfry. Much like her son.

"Come again?" he squeaked, the sound of his voice barely breaking the distance between them.

"Of course, he would never tell you that would he? Oops..." she squeaked, raising her crooked fingers to her lips before dropping her hand back onto her lap. "I have spilled beans." She gave a small shrug and grinned mischievously, and Ichigo could see that she still had her own teeth, fangs and all.

Oh. Now he saw it.

"That will be our little secret, yes?" she continued, still smiling.

Ichigo quirked a brow at the woman who was now grinning innocently up at him. Innocent, his ass. This was a sneaky little old lady, obviously with good intentions, but still, sneaky. He kind of had to respect her for it. It hurt though, knowing that it probably wasn't true.

"Sure," he replied, trying to conjure up a small smile of his own and barely succeeding.

"Good." She stood up again, straightened, and patted his arm. "Now. I am going for walk. If I sit any longer, I will pickle." She gave his arm a quick, hard squeeze, a lot more strength packed into that aged hand than he thought would have been possible.

She turned away and stepped up to the door as Ichigo unconsciously rubbed at the now tender spot. Damn. It might even bruise. Ichigo watched the door close behind her in quiet consideration. Well, she'd certainly calmed his nerves initially, but then she'd gone and given him a whole new set of things to think about. Unsettling things.

He wasn't sure whether anything Grimmjow's mother had said to him was true. But what if it was? He stood there for a moment, feeling a bit shell shocked by their conversation and the strange turn it had taken.

His brain was still trying to deal with the new information when a short, dry cough broke the silence. He started at the sound, heart picking up its rhythm. After all that, he'd nearly forgotten why he was in this room in the first place. Ichigo quietly crossed the room and stepped up to the bed to get a better view of the reclining hockey player, the smooth landscape of the plain white sheets broken into rolling hills by the bulk of his body. Grimmjow was nearly as pale as the sheets that covered the bed.

Had he really been asleep, Ichigo wondered? Had he heard any of that conversation? He leaned over the bed to catch a better view of his teammate's eyes. No. Clearly, he hadn't. He was only now beginning to stir. Grimmjow's eyes were fluttering open. And he seemed a little confused. He was definitely just waking up.

The younger man's expression softened slightly. Grimmjow almost looked gentle in a moment like this, half asleep, hair tousled and fanned out against the pillow. And the way he frowned in protest... he looked like a sleepy child struggling to wake up.

Ichigo's smile turned down into a frown. Anyone who hadn't seen him in action would never know what waking monster lay beneath that innocent beauty.

Forget looking like one. Ichigo was sure Grimmjow climbed into fountains at night and stole the wishes of children.

While the bluenet crawled towards consciousness, Ichigo hovered beside him, eyes travelling across broad shoulders that were, oddly, bare. He wasn't wearing a hospital gown. Ichigo wondered if Grimmjow was naked under those sheets. He couldn't imagine Grimmjow letting anyone wrestle him into a hospital gown, injured or not. From the way Grimmjow strolled from the showers to his locker, he seemed like a guy who was happier naked.

A small smile crept into the corner of Ichigo's mouth, then faded when something struck him. Even though he'd tried to keep his eyes to himself when they changed, Ichigo had looked up to see Grimmjow buck naked scads of times, but... he never imagined that he would ever see the blue-eyed enforcer in the raw in bed. And though Grimmjow probably wouldn't even care, Ichigo was left feeling a bit of a voyeur, like he always did.

Ichigo blinked away the thoughts that he shouldn't be having as the enforcer finally came too.

The bluenet sniffed and cleared his throat, coughing several times and wincing for his troubles before his eyes finally started to focus on his surroundings. He grumbled to himself, and Ichigo had to lean in to hear him.

"Fuck'n air is dry in here," he rasped, the beginnings of a dry cough quickly turning to a moistureless, sandpapery hack. "Ah, fuck."

Grimmjow's eyes closed again, and he grimaced as he dragged a hand along the covers, lifting it to his head and pressing his palm against his temple. While his head was making the most noise right now, there wasn't a bone in his body that didn't hurt. The end of last night's game was a blurred, woozy memory. But Grimmjow didn't need to piece it together. He'd seen the hit that had landed him here. And more than anything, more than even Nnoitra, he was pissed at _himself_. Nnoitra never would have gotten the drop on him if he hadn't been so fucking wrapped up with what Kurosaki was doing.

Fuck. Damn near the first person he was thinking about when he was waking up with a titanic headache was Ichigo fucking Kurosaki. God dammit, he needed another cat scan, because he may have actually lost some brain matter in that hit.

Ichigo winced at the dry coughing, darkened eyes crinkling in sympathy, and he turned and reached for the glass of water that sat untouched on the bedside table.

"Here," he said quietly.

The bluenet's hand pulled away from his temple with a start, and he nearly jerked out of his pillow when he realized someone was standing beside him.

Ichigo cringed as he watched Grimmjow squint at him through a fog of pain and blurry vision.

But azure eyes sharpened in angry recognition the moment they latched onto Ichigo's face.

"Fuck," he mumbled, as he settled himself back down, his head sinking back into the cradling depths of his pillow. He'd knocked the dog-shit out of his head, and it still hurt like a motherfucker. They wouldn't even give him any painkillers yet. They didn't want him doped up while recovering from a mild concussion because it could mask potentially serious symptoms. But now he was wondering if could use some anti-psychotics instead, because he had to be seeing things.

Miserable, annoying, orange-haired things.

"The fuck are _you_ doing here?" he grated.

The unwelcome hallucination snorted back at him before it began to speak.

"Nice to see you too, asshole," Ichigo responded quietly. He glared down at the barbarous patient and wondered if there was perhaps a plug he could pull. "I just came to check on you."

"Hah. Tell me another one," Grimmjow croaked, the vestiges of sleep still clinging to his features. "You came here ta make sure I kicked the bucket.

"Oh, would you just..." he mumbled, exasperated already, but fading out, there being not much point in arguing with the recalcitrant enforcer.

"Sorry ta disappoint ya, red head," Grimmjow kept his weak glare turned up at the orangette, "but 'm gonna live."

Ichigo scowled and thrust the cup over the bluenet. He was tempted just to dump it over him. He wasn't a red head. And it irked him to be called that by a man who's hair looked like a smartie.

Ichigo frowned again, more to himself than at Grimmjow. He swore he was beginning to get seasick from the roller coaster of emotions he seemed to feel whenever the bluenet was involved. They'd said how many words to each other? And Ichigo was already ready to throw in the towel. But something about the other man's hoarse voice gave him pause. He found it oddly endearing. Besides, Grimmjow seemed a little punchy. And that just brought him right back around to the reason they were here in the first place.

"Just take the damn water," he muttered.

"Hn." Grimmjow fixed him with a suspicious look before he finally caved in and accepted the cup, tucking the straw between his lips and pulling the water into his mouth like he'd been lost in the dessert for a week.

Grimmjow glanced back up at Ichigo, giving him a thorough once over. He let the tip of the straw rest against his bottom lip as he spoke. He couldn't resist making a comment on Ichigo's appearance. The kid had some impressive bruises of his own and they looked pretty fresh. That coverup he'd tried to use wasn't fooling anyone.

"You look like hammered shit," he drawled. His eyelids hung low, showing his boredom, but the timber of his voice betrayed a minute spark of concern. "The fuck happened?"

Ichigo blinked, realizing right away that he must had been rubbing his face at some point. Ichigo could have laughed at Grimmjow's comment, though... at the irony. Had the bluenet seen himself in a mirror? He could have laughed, but he didn't. Grimmjow was sharp as a box of crayons at times, but now, even concussed, he was going for the throat. And Ichigo could already guess what stinging point he was going to try to make.

The young forward winced and glanced away, then lifted his shoulders as if to shrug off the question. Losing Grimmjow had sucked. He couldn't deny it. But Grimmjow wasn't winning any awards in Ichigo's book by rubbing Ichigo's nose in it.

He heaved a deep internal sigh. He came here to apologize. Grimmjow was basically helpless. The least Ichigo could do was give him this one.

"Nothing really. Just got into it with some Hollows."

"Hn." Grimmjow nodded. It wasn't quite a nod of respect, but only because the bluenet refused to let the tiny bud of a feeling blossom. Though groggy, he'd been awake for a little while in the morning, and coherent enough to absorb the hockey news being broadcast on the small flat screen TV in his private room. So, he knew enough, how Ichigo had been targeted for the remainder of the game, and how Ichigo had finally snapped a rod, getting into it hard with Ulquiorra and earning himself an early hall pass to the locker room.

"Did we win?" he pushed. He already knew that answer too, but Ichigo didn't know that. Grimmjow just longed to see the look on Ichigo's face, wanted to know that he had felt Grimmjow's absence just a little bit. He returned to sucking on the straw to hide the smug grin that was pulling at the stitches in his mouth as Ichigo shook his head.

"Look," the younger man began, while Grimmjow made love to the straw, gulping down the whole thing as Ichigo spoke. If he didn't say this now, they'd end up arguing, and he'd be walking out of the room after smothering the blue-haired antichrist with a pillow.

"I came here to see if you were alright, okay? Because... it was my fault that you took that hit. And I wanted to tell you..." Ichigo sighed and glanced away in discomfort before squaring himself and looking Grimmjow directly in the eye.

"I'm sorry that you got hurt."

Ichigo kept his eyes on the prone man, searching his face, waiting for a nod of acceptance, or the faintest sign of forgiveness.

Grimmjow stilled, lips still latched onto the straw like a hollow, plastic lifeline.

He was speechless actually. And the straw was a great delay tactic while he tried to figure out how to respond to this... apology? Kurosaki's voice was soft, sincere, and for a moment it seemed to bleed through the dense haze of anger that came with being around the orangette.

The bluenet considered the man at his bedside, the only person he knew of, aside from his ma, to show up so far to see him. They hated each other, yet here he was.

Grimmjow frowned slightly. That was the problem with Kurosaki. He was an odd mix of heroic good guy - to school for cool - and a defiant, scene stealing know-it-all. Everything about the younger man rifled Grimmjow's nerves. And yet... here he was, all subdued and sincere and sticky and vulnerable in front of Grimmjow, asking for his divine forgiveness for something that it hadn't even occurred to him he should hold against him in the first place. Though he probably should.

It was odd though. He kind of wanted to land all the blame on Ichigo, say he was the reason for Grimmjow's situation, but... he couldn't do it. And _that_ sent a fresh, queasy little hiccup racing through his stomach.

Maybe it was the concussion. Or maybe he just wanted to get rid of those deep brown doe eyes that the orangette was pointing at him, but Grimmjow was feeling just magnanimous enough to let the other man off the hook. This time. It didn't really mean that much in the scheme of things anyway. It was like putting a band-aid on a gaping chest wound. There wasn't anything he could think of that was going to put and end to their mutual hate-on.

Ichigo shifted from one foot to the other. Grimmjow was just staring at him.

"Okay," the bluenet finally drawled after eventually letting the straw go. He handed the empty cup back to Ichigo, as if testing his sincerity. Ichigo frowned, but he took the cup from Grimmjow's right hand, the one that didn't have a sharp needle jammed into its veins and an IV line dangling from it.

"Okay?" he parroted, one apricot brow drifting upwards.

"Yeah."

"So... we're cool?" he prodded, replacing the empty cup onto the table.

Grimmjow lifted his shoulders into the edge of the pillow in a halfhearted shrug, the slightest wince creasing his azure eyes. He glanced up.

"As cool as we ever are."

Ichigo snorted softly.

"That's what I was afraid you'd say."

The orange haired man reached over and caught the back of a chair from the other side of the table and dragged it up to the bed. He sat down hard, like the load he was baring on his shoulders held a physical weight and he needed to rest.

"Look, Grimmjow. The coach asked us to work out our issues. Obviously, we can't be fighting each other while we're on the same team."

"Doesn't bother me any."

Ichigo chose not to bite at the familiar carrot that Grimmjow was dangling. Staying calm and logical was the only course of action that would see this conversation end well. Besides, Grimmjow was still having difficulty and struggling to focus. He could see it in the glassiness of his eyes. Even this short visit was already draining him. But Ichigo had a few more things to take care of before Grimmjow could rest.

"I want to see our team make the playoffs this year," he stated. "Don't _you_?" The reapers were losing their standing game by game, point by point. The way things were going, they were never going to make it.

"Course I do," Grimmjow snarled. "Fucking stupid ques..."

"I _don't_ want to fight with you any more," he said seriously. Well actually, a dark and determined part of him did want to fight, to climb onto the bed right now, straddle Grimmjow, and choke the stubborn out of him. But they just couldn't keep it up.

Grimmjow looked like he had other ideas. He narrowed ice blue eyes, squeezing them into frozen slivers of irritation, holding them on Ichigo for moment, before releasing them, the change in his expression telling Ichigo he had come to some sort of conclusion. Grimmjow's face was completely sober, contemplative, concise.

"You can say all the pretty words you want, Kurosaki," he rumbled, "but you know as well as I do that we can't play together." Grimmjow's free hand curled into a fist, though it stayed rested on his chest. "Every time we get out there you piss me the fuck off and make me wanna beat your ass into centre ice."

Ichigo stiffened in defence and felt his lip twitch upwards, reaching with ardour towards a dangerous snarl.

"Ya? Well, sometimes the feeling's pretty damn mutual," he ground out between tightened incisors. "But," he said with a slight nod that for a moment left him looking down his nose at the bluenet before he levelled his gaze, "we both know it doesn't matter how much we hate each other. This is our job, and we have to find a way to get along."

Grimmjow didn't appear to have any words for Ichigo's declaration. Instead he seemed content to continue charging up the blue ion guns that were aimed in Ichigo's direction. Ichigo took up the challenge with as much good grace as he could muster, and continued.

"So, since we don't have any games for the next week..."

"What?" Both blue eyebrows shot up in confusion. "But I'm good to go tomorrow!"

Ichigo gave Grimmjow a bland look.

The statement was nearly a whine and a definite exaggeration. There was something almost, but not quite, cute about it, and Ichigo rolled his eyes as he shook his head from side to side.

"No. You're not," Ichigo stated, leaning forward to regain the bluenet's full attention. Grimmjow needed to get a clue. "You're concussed."

Grimmjow's lip shot up, one defiant fang somehow gleaming in the dark.

"Che... barely..."

Kensei's description had been accurate. Ichigo had seen a deep bruise blooming across Grimmjow's shoulder, running down the top of his chest and disappearing beneath the blankets. He could only imagine the sickly pallet of colors that the bluenet would already be sporting just beneath his chest, where Nnoitra's shoulder had caught him hardest. And when Grimmjow had turned his face towards Ichigo, he'd seen the ugly bruise that was already painting a vivid trail from his left temple, across his cheekbone, and down to his jaw. He had a cut on his nose as well, the edges red and swollen. Both of his lips were split near the edges of the side he'd landed on. To top it off, the bruises from his fight with Ichigo hadn't completely faded yet. He had bruises on top of bruises, and they all belonged to Ichigo.

"And we're basically both on suspension, dumb ass. Again. Three games a piece."

"What?!" Grimmjow looked positively stricken before his eyes fell and his face pinched into a scowl deep enough to aggravate the headache he was trying to ignore.

"Coach said with the way we're both playing right now, they're better off without us."

"Fuck." If it was possible, Grimmjow scowled harder. This was the very thing he feared most. That everything he'd worked for, the space he'd carved out for himself in life, meant zip fuck all to anyone.

"You think he was going to let us off again after last time?" Ichigo snorted. He was relentless, and his laugh was bitter. "No way. He's pissed. ...And I hate to say it, but he's probably not far off."

Ichigo's post game dressing-down hadn't been what he'd expected. The coach hadn't even bothered to yell.

Ichigo noticed the bluenet's fists whiten as they curled into the sheets, and he looked a little paler than before. Ichigo's presence obviously wasn't doing much for his partner's mental well being, but he had a message to deliver, so Grimmjow would just have to suck it up and be stressed out for the time being. Actually, the coach was being harder on Ichigo this time around. Grimmjow was officially on concussion-watch anyway, so his suspension was redundant. By the time he was ready to play, a week, maybe two, his time would be over.

"But we didn't _do_ anything," the bluenet groused. The sour note of indignation gave Ichigo a sudden and clear mental image of a blue-haired kid in fifth grade left standing in the hallway lamenting the rocky foundations of his unfair persecution to the very person he'd been accused of roughing up. Ichigo gave his head a small mental shake and refocused his gaze on the upset enforcer.

"Yeah, we did," Ichigo countered bluntly, eyes cast to his knees in concentration. "We screwed around and let our personal issues affect our play, like we always do. And we lost the game."

Ichigo looked up, and Grimmjow saw something he'd seen before flare in those russet eyes that made him want to pull the sheets up over his head in denial.

"And you got hurt."

Even though Ichigo meant to lay it out for the bluenet, he felt his own shoulders pull down in defeat. There really wasn't any point in denying it anymore. The pair of them were single handedly undermining everything their team had worked so hard for. And everything _they'd_ both worked for.

"Whatever," Grimmjow grumbled as he shrugged his shoulders, his gaze running towards the window and its closed blinds. He hated it when Ichigo fussed about him being injured. Idiot had brought it up more than once, and it was something Grimmjow had tried not to think on too much, lest it cause him to form a soft spot for the orangette. He recognized that they both had issues, but Ichigo's final point was irrelevant. To Ichigo this was about him being hurt? Che. He got hurt all the time. He wasn't a hypocrite. Live by the sword; die by the sword. What was the fucking difference this time?

Ichigo eye's darkened as he watched the bluenet pull away. He was either sulking over his suspension, or brushing off his injury. Or both. Ichigo wasn't sure which one it was or wasn't, but he willed himself not to comment. It would only incite another one of their infamous arguments.

And what he was about to say was going to fly like a wingless goose anyway.

"Coach said we either learn to work together, or one of us leaves the team."

Ichigo heard the small inhale of breath, and watched Grimmjow stiffen and blink in disbelief, though the bedridden man still childishly refused to look his way. There was a short but heavy silence in the room before Ichigo continued, as if pressing the shiny red button and dropping a large nuclear device on them both wasn't enough.

"And he doesn't give a damn which one of us it is."

"Che." Grimmjow turned back and fixed Ichigo with a dark look.

"Coach's words. Not mine," Ichigo declared. He folded his arms across his chest as if defending against a blast of frigid air as blue eyes as cold as the tundra narrowed dangerously and bore into his. Grimmjow's upper lip pulled back into a challenging snarl.

"Then you can pack yer shit and _get_," he growled, voice rising in anger.

"You wish, jackass." Ichigo returned the sentiment with equal vehemence and a dark scowl of his own.

"I ain't going _anywhere,_" Grimmjow snapped back.

"Neither am I." Fingers tightened into fists as he leaned forward.

It was all more snarls than words.

And then it was silent again, neither man capable of speaking without all out war breaking out inside the hospital room

Ichigo took a deep breath, unlooping his arms and ploughing his fingers through his awkward orange spikes while he forced himself to calm down. He had nearly erupted out of his seat at the bluenet's declaration**. **Grimmjow wanting him to leave had just somehow cut right to the bone. But that was normal, wasn't it. Reason and composure was a slippery eel whenever he was around the bluenet.

He heaved an internal sigh as he calmed back down. Well... it wasn't like he _expected_ Grimmjow to be all hearts and flowers...

"Anyway," he began, fixing his vision on the metal bar at the end of the bed. It was a safer place to look, much less likely that a steel bar could piss him off. Besides, an inanimate steel bar was much more pleasant to converse with. But...he had promised himself that was done avoiding.

Ichigo dragged his eyes back over the covers towards the source of his ire and was slightly surprised that the sorry excuse of a man in front of him hadn't already jumped in with some derogatory comment.

It appeared they were _both_ fighting to keep from fighting. Grimmjow was just watching him, face unreadable, and Ichigo nearly forgot what he had wanted to say next. Grimmjow actually seemed curious enough to wait to hear what Ichigo had to say. This was new.

"Obviously, neither one of us wants to quit being a Soul Reaper."

"Hn."

Ichigo shifted in his seat. That was about as close to an agreeable remark that he fathomed he would get right about now.

"So, I... propose," Ichigo dragged the word out, hesitating. He was aware that Grimmjow was going to find some way to be annoyed with the word, and even less impressed with the suggestion itself, "...that we spend some of this time together off the ice and try to find some sort of.. I don't know... common ground."

It came out as more of a question, and it was a really difficult thing to say. Ichigo wanted to spend just as much time with the bluenet as Grimmjow did with him.

Another long moment of silence filled the room, and Ichigo found himself fighting to hold the other man's gaze.

It was an equally difficult thing to do. The tension he felt around him was becoming more than he could bare. The ball was in Grimmjow's court now. And rejection hurt... even if you didn't like someone.

Grimmjow snorted loudly.

"I think it's gonna take a little more than a week to turn this train wreck around, don't you?"

Ichigo sighed, amazed at how exhausted he was feeling all of a sudden.

"We don't have much of a choice here, Grimmjow."

"Hn. Fine. Just give me tomorrow off would ya? I'm gonna need all my strength to pull this off."

Honey brown eyes narrowed, but a smirk crept into the corner of his mouth. Grimmjow had just agreed to Ichigo's proposal. It felt like he'd just signed a contract with the devil, but now that they'd come to some sort of odd harmony, he realized part of him almost kind of liked the challenge that Grimmjow gave him, even if it meant he was being an annoying pain in the ass.

"Well, that's a fantastic attitude," he replied blandly. The chair scraped across the floor as Ichigo stood up and straightened himself, smoothing the creases out of his shirt in two short swipes of his hand, and ducking his head to hide the insistent smirk that now tugged at his lips.

"Hn. Best yer gonna get."

Ichigo glanced up at that, azure and brown coming together, both of them sharpened and a little wary, but... there was something... a trick of the light maybe... that could almost have been taken for a smile. Ichigo thought, perhaps, that he saw something sparkle slightly behind those unbelievably blue eyes, even while the disinterested expression stayed firmly entrenched on the enforcer's face. Ichigo shrugged mentally. If it _was_ a smile, it was probably just a side affect from the concussion.

He turned and strode towards the door, then stopped, looking back at the bluenet with a loud smirk as he pulled the door open. Grimmjow had gotten in the last word, but Ichigo knew he couldn't leave things like that. He couldn't let Grimmjow get away with a single inch.

"Yeah, I know. That's what your mom said," he purred. Ichigo watched as Grimmjow's azure eyes popped wide open and flew to his face.

"What?!" Grimmjow lurched forward, then grimaced, hissing in pain as he fell back against the sheets.

He'd been half way intent on following after Kurosaki before his body rebelled and he was forced to lie back down. When the fuck had Kurosaki spoken to his mother? And what the fuck had she told him? And where the fuck was a bucket when you needed one? The room was listing a little and his stomach was promising a messy fallout if he didn't stay down. But fuck it. He sucked in a quick, deep breath through his nose and bellowed at the retreating Ichigo.

"WHAT THE FU- "

Ichigo smiled broadly and chuckled to himself as the door to Grimmjow's room quietly clicked shut**.**


	18. Chapter 18

**I planned to have one more section to this chapter, but I desperately wanted to post something so you wouldn't think I had died and gone to soul society. I've been having a lot of Grimmichi block. I will just tack the last bit onto the start of the next chap. In meantime, I hope I have kept you entertained. Enjoy!**

**Junichiblue**

* * *

**CHAPTER 17**

"You can't... be serious."

Exactly two days later the social experiment of a lifetime had begun, and already Ichigo was regretting it.

After doing a very obvious double take, the younger man looked pointedly at the bluenet's chosen attire, irritation quickly replacing the calm facade that he had worked so very damn hard to construct before their meet up.

Since the moment Ichigo had woken up in bed this morning, the bluenet had been on his mind. And Ichigo was filled with an anxious mix of revulsion and excitement. The revulsion he got. The excitement though... he had to think about that. He wanted to chalk it up to good old fashion anxiety, the same feeling he got before a game, because he knew the outcome was important. Though they weren't under the game time glare of several thousand pairs of eyes, they were still in effect being watched. Their respective careers were riding on this.

It was logical. Ichigo had every reason to feel nervous. But eventually, he managed to come up with an even more plausible explanation. Meeting up with the blue eyed buffoon and getting along would be nothing short of a spiritual challenge. A Herculean task. If Ichigo could find a way to rise above whatever choppy, sludge infested waters surrounded the two of them and bring Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez around to his way of thinking, then he could do just about damn well anything. He'd be an honorary fuckin' superhero.

It was amazing just how hard a superhero had to work, he'd discovered.

Ever since he'd shaken the cobwebs loose, crawled from his warm bed into a hot shower, and rubbed away his formidable morning erection with remarkable and unusual ease, Ichigo had been concentrating to the point of damn near meditating on ways to keep himself from letting the bluenet get to him.

And the first Goddamn thing the blue-haired man-child does is... THIS_. _

Ichigo was barely halfway out of his car, and all of his efforts to convince himself that they were going to make some headway and get along like reasonable people had already sputtered out of existence.

Grimmjow stood with his head cocked to one side as he leaned against his car feigning innocence, the smirk he wore erasing all doubt about the true degree of his guilt.

"Whut?" the bluenet drawled, shoulders shrugging and sky blue irises sparkling in the light of the sun.

Ichigo glared at the enforcer, eyes scanning back and forth across the tight material that clung to his chest and abs before darting up to meet a face that was insufferably smug.

Grimmjow just stared straight back, smirking as he watched Ichigo struggle to maintain his composure. The enforcer waited, gloved hands half hidden beneath the rim of his open jacket, thumbs snagged in the belt loops of his most abused jeans. They buckled a little across the crotch under the pressure of his hands. He let Ichigo stare at him, pleased with the subtle changes in his expression as Ichigo's eyes darted from one part of his body to another, delving for a curious moment as far down as his package, before finally flying up and landing on his eyes.

He'd taken his sunglasses off. He wanted Ichigo to catch every nuance. Every look of pleasure, and every bruise that surrounded it. He owed Kurosaki for that cowardly jab in the hospital. Fucker had baited Grimmjow then nearly bolted from the room. He still had no idea what had been said. His ma was a locked vault when she had half a mind to be. But no matter. Even in the state Grimmjow had been in, Kurosaki had still been afraid to go up against him.

His throat vibrated with a soft chuckle. Grimmjow was going to enjoy this.

He knew he shouldn't be so quick to try and irritate the orangette, since they were doing this so they could learn to - air quote - get along. But the temptation when he opened his t-shirt drawer that morning had been just too great to resist.

Ichigo felt a growl build in the back of his throat as he considered his partner's chosen attire, as clear a sign as any of impending disaster on a day that was important to both of them.

In large, bold letters, scrawled across his too-small black t-shirt were the words, "You can't spell slaughter without laughter".

It was magnificent in its gaudiness. The word slaughter was even printed in red, dripping like blood and tilted on an angle. Eye catching.

Ichigo expelled a wavering, mile deep sigh and rested his arm on the open door of his car. The fact that Grimmjow had gone out of his way to unzip his winter jacket, braving the bitter cold of the January day just to show off his t-shirt, sent a further surge of annoyance through the orangette.

"Just get in," he said flatly, dark gaze not leaving Grimmjow's.

Grimmjow ignored the frigid tone which might have caused some to stumble. Grimmjow could handle the cold as much as he could his partner's chilly looks**. **Ichigo was once again back to holding in his hostilities. Fair enough. As much as it made him want to throw him up against his own car and goad him into another all out brawl, Grimmjow could do the same. He could be cool. He wasn't about to be outdone.

Ichigo watched as the smarmy bluenet closed the short distance between them with a casual saunter. He tried is best to unpin his sour scowl, determined not to let himself appear defeated in any way. He already had plenty to be annoyed about. One, Grimmjow's shirt was an atrocity. Two, he'd taken his glasses off so Ichigo wouldn't miss the cocky looks, not to mention the battle scars that Grimmjow wanted him to see.

And if Grimmjow sauntered any slower, Ichigo would be at number ten long before the bluenet made it to his car.

What he realized, though, as Grimmjow practically oozed across the empty parking space between their cars and stopped in front of him, was that he'd never seen Grimmjow's eyes up close under natural light before. They'd spent all their travelling time avoiding each other. But Ichigo couldn't avoid his eyes now. They glittered like fractured blue crystal in the sunlight. For just blue, they were so insanely colourful, so insanely... loud. He really was a beautiful creature, when his mouth wasn't moving. Huh.

Grimmjow had shown up at their chosen meeting place, the quiet end of a large box store parking lot, a few minutes early, on the premise that the sooner they started the day, the sooner they could get away from each other. He'd driven that short distance, even though he'd been advised not to. But it was Ichigo's car they would be taking, and that was a pretty big concession as far as Grimmjow was concerned.

The meeting place lay in relatively neutral territory, about half way between their respective apartments. Neither of them had wanted to meet at the place where they lived. The idea of the other man seeing their personal space was just repugnant. Not to mention downright creepy.

So, this was how it was going to be, Ichigo thought. He'd come here with about as much enthusiasm as a man bending over for a prostate exam, and Grimmjow was going to make sure neither of them enjoyed a single minute of their little misadventure into male bonding. Fine. If the shithead was going to actively undermine their progress, then Ichigo would be just as much of a prick.

No.

Dammit. No.

He wanted to stay with the Soul Reapers. He'd waited a long time to get called up to the nationals and this blue-haired freak wasn't going to ruin his Goddamn golden opportunity. So help him, Ichigo was going to swallow his own tongue if he had to, if that's what it took to keep the peace.

Besides, Grimmjow looked like shit, what with the bruises from his mishap now fully formed and highly colourful. The intended effect of Grimmjow as a psychopathic brawler was damn near perfected by the spectacular bruising running down the side of his face. A mix of ugly, yellow-purple stain ran down his left side. It reached from the top of his temple to the edge of his cheekbone. And it had spread quite nicely into his left eye, changing color while bleeding along his lower eyelashes and creating the effect of teal eyeliner.

Ichigo chuckled to himself and noticed Grimmjow frown. How could he stay mad at him when he looked so beaten up? Let him have his silly shirt. Ichigo could deal with whatever the bluenet threw at him.

**X X X**

Shoot him in the face.

It would be easier.

They had barely made it a half hour into their "play date" before they'd both decided to throw in the towel.

They'd spent almost every minute of that time verbally scratching and clawing each other into shreds. It had been a miracle that the words hadn't turned into shoving and fists. In the every-day away from the rink, out in public, it didn't seem appropriate to "drop 'em", but it was damn tempting. In fact, the one and only thing the two men would have agreed on, was that they had both shown a remarkable degree of restraint.

Since Grimmjow was taking painkillers for his deep tissue bruises, and still suffering from a mild but distracting headache, they had taken Ichigo's car for the day. But not before Grimmjow had eyed his car up with overt scepticism, raising a wary eyebrow and making a show of inspecting the older four door sedan before entering it. Ichigo had bitten his tongue and left the lot before he realized they didn't even know where they were going. By the time they headed back towards the parking lot where Grimmjow's car waited, it had taken every ounce of will Ichigo could muster to keep from veering them off the road and careening them both into certain death just to end the torment.

The real problems had begun the minute Ichigo drove out of the parking lot. He'd asked the bluenet where he wanted to go. That was all it took to begin their mutual descent into misery.

Grimmjow's reaction was the start of it. What did Ichigo mean, where did he want to go?

"This was your idea, and you didn't even come here with a plan?" he chastised, voice brimming with derision.

"What the hell?" Ichigo squawked. "I didn't know what you'd be up for today. And I didn't think you'd want me making decisions for you." Amazing. Grimmjow's mother must have been standing up to him for twenty five years, and yet, Ichigo found five minutes a bit of a challenge.

There was a short silence before Grimmjow answered. Ichigo took it as a sign that Grimmjow saw his reasoning, and he fought back the urge to smirk as he waited at a light.

"So, make a suggestion then," the bluenet finally grunted**.**

So, Ichigo did.

"We could go for coffee. There's a place just up the street from..."

"Don't like coffee."

"Uh- Well, you don't _have_ to have _coffee_," _Jerk_. "They _have_ other _things_. Get yourself a tea or something..."

"Don't like boiled twigs. And that's basically the same suggestion."

"Of course it is! It's..." Ichigo's explosive reply dissolved into a chest heaving sigh that hissed through his teeth, the sound it produced not so far off from the spark and crackle of a dwindling fuse. He already felt the telltale prickling rising up the back of his neck, but he supposed they had to start somewhere. There weren't that many things they could do with Grimmjow's condition being what it was. The enforcer was supposed to take it easy and keep himself out of stressful situations. If they were going to... hang out... they would have to do something quiet and relaxing.

"Fine. What about... a movie?"

"Now, _that's_ a stupid idea," Grimmjow scoffed.

"Oy! What's wrong with that?" Ichigo's right hand was up and off the steering wheel, gesturing in the air before slapping back down against the cool leather. Grimmjow watched the hand with one eye, half expecting that Ichigo was going to hit him. But his own hands stayed on his lap while Ichigo went off.

"It's a perfectly good..."

"Well, it kinda defeats the whole point, don't it?"

Except for a muttered curse that the other didn't quite catch, Ichigo didn't respond.

"Although I gotta admit," the bluenet purred "I do like the idea of not talking to you for two hours." Grimmjow couldn't resist throwing the snide comment in. Anything to see Kurosaki as miserable as Grimmjow.

"Keh," Ichigo snorted, a deep scowl ploughing it's way between his eyes. The thought of being trapped in a seat next to Grimmjow in a darkened theatre, trying to share an armrest... it was the stuff of nightmares. It would be just like this, sitting next to each other inside Ichigo's car, only... closer. And the thought of being that close to Grimmjow in the dark made Ichigo... antsy. In fact, even though he was warm enough, he felt a small shiver run down the skin of his neck and disappear beneath his jacket.

Grimmjow was right. It was a stupid idea.

"Can't argue that," he finally grit out from between teeth that were clenched tighter than a mosquito's ass. Was Grimmjow really such an jerk that he couldn't please just throw Ichigo a bone here? Ichigo was trying, and Grimmjow was giving him exactly diddly squat in return. A thought occurred to him as he switched lanes to make a turn. Was this just regular Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez attitude, or was he getting Ichigo back for the other day?

Another city block passed them by before Ichigo was able to think rationally enough for another outing idea to come to mind. Until then, most of his brain power had been focused on constructing a device that would vaporize his passenger without harming his delicate car.

"Well..." he mumbled. "What about shopping?" Ichigo's eyes widened as he realized what he'd just gone and said. And he wanted to bang his head against the steering wheel.

"No... wait..." _Dammit!_ Why did he have to go and say that? They were supposed to be jocks. Tough guys. And Grimmjow had proven himself, without a doubt, the ultimate epitome of that. Ichigo tensed further as he drove. He already knew what was coming.

"Shopping?" his passenger parroted.

There was a lengthy pause, Grimmjow letting the time and the contempt in his voice settle into Ichigo's bones before he continued.

"I don't _like_ shopping. I shop because I need to _buy_ something," he stated coolly, and slowly, every word carefully enunciated and free of slang, as if he were talking to a small child, or... a very... stupid... person.

"And right now, there is nothing I _need_ to buy. But, if you want to go pick up a purse, I guess we can do that."

Ichigo's grip on the wheel tightened for a moment, knuckles turning the off color of spilt milk.

"No," he grumbled back. "That actually sounds like a good idea. Let's go buy a purse. Then we can put your makeup in it."

The retort was met with blistering silence.

Grimmjow turned and stared angry holes into the side of Ichigo's head, but he didn't say anything. He had nothing but scalding hatred for this man right now. He didn't even feel capable without yelling to point out that Ichigo was the one who wore makeup. The whole reason they were even here was because of Grimmjow's injury, and he was sure he didn't really need to tell Ichigo that _that_ was a low blow.

Grimmjow sunk a little lower into his seat, strong fingers gripping his knee, lest they find their way across the car and meet with the side of Ichigo's skull.

Instead, Grimmjow aimed a predatory stare at Ichigo, eyes stalking their way down along the long vulnerable curves of his neck. A surge of heat pressed against his chest, and Grimmjow considered reaching across the car and wrapping his clenching fingers around that neck then squeezing until Ichigo's eyes dulled and he finally quit fighting.

He blinked, azure eyes distant and filled with dark indiscretion that would have been alarming to see... had anyone been looking.

Grimmjow tilted his head. He could do that, yes. But it would be awkward from this position. Besides, if they didn't die in a fiery crash first, Grimmjow would have to go through the trouble of switching positions, dragging the heavy orangette into the passenger side. (And he remembered just how heavy Kurosaki was from their time tangled up on the ice.) Then Grimmjow would have to drive Ichigo home and wait for him to regain consciousness. He would freeze in this weather if left alone in his car. It really was much too complicated and a definite inconvenience.

Grimmjow grunted. Since when did Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez spend any amount of time considering the logistics of hurting someone or their subsequent well being?

He continued to glower at the other man while he drove, but after a moment, the bluenet turned away, the world beyond the confined space serving as a nice distraction.

Eventually, he heard Ichigo sigh.

"Sorry."

One blue eyebrow twitched upwards, the only obvious change in Grimmjow's expression as he glared through the windshield. He was slightly surprised to hear the apology. And stiff though it was, it sounded sincere. He was also a bit startled to find that such a small word coming from _that_ person had managed to knock his anger back down to manageable levels.

"Hn."

The sound of soft clicking was positively earth shattering inside the quiet car as Ichigo flicked the turn signal on and made a left turn onto a busy road, his mind focused on the guttural response coming from his passenger as much as on his driving. It wasn't really clear to Ichigo whether or not that was an _I accept your apology_, hn, or just an, _I heard you, now fuck off_, hn. But he was leaning towards the latter after several minutes of driving in silence.

Grimmjow said nothing as Ichigo manoeuvred the car through the city streets, still hoping that something would catch their eye. They needed to find something that Grimmjow could do that was slow paced. He was only two days from the hospital, and he wasn't allowed to do anything stressful. Ichigo wondered if this outing would fall under that category. Sure felt like it to him. Much as he didn't look forward to ice time with the sexta, and as much as he'd like to slow the car down and tell Grimmjow to tuck and roll, Ichigo didn't want to make his situation any worse. It would likely be at least a week before he was cleared to play again.

In the meantime, Ichigo was convinced his passenger had become mute. He'd never heard less noise out of the vociferous bluenet than he was hearing right now. He didn't even know Grimmjow was capable of sustained silence for this amount of time. Okay, that wasn't fair. Grimmjow wasn't nearly as talkative as say, Shinji, or Renji. He was just so much louder and crasser that it just seemed like he had more to say. Or maybe, Ichigo just listened more to what came out of the blue-eyed devil's mouth. Nah. That didn't sound right at all.

He passed several small shops that could have proved moderately entertaining without any signal from his passenger. He still wasn't sure if the silence in the car represented peace or just a temporary cease fire. The tension was still there, thick and alive, but at least it had settled into that familiar _something_ they were both used to.

Grimmjow's thoughts were not so complacent. He wondered what the hell had possessed him to agree to coming out with Kurosaki when he'd felt the way he had this morning. Grimmjow was bruised and sore, his head ached, and his chest pulled sharply with nearly every movement, even despite the mild dose of pain killers he'd been allowed to take. He didn't normally like taking medications, but he'd felt rough first thing in the morning. The pills did take the edge off, though. And under normal circumstances he could have lived with that, but not today. He was stiff, sore, tired, and frankly grumpy as shit.

In all honesty, Ichigo hadn't done a single thing to him to deserve Grimmjow's stormy demeanour. It was just easy to take it out on Kurosaki. He should have stayed at home and relaxed on the couch. He'd actually made an effort to follow his doctor's orders and had done that for a full two days after being released. And frankly he'd had enough of it. As much as he loathed this man, a few hours out of the house, playing with Kurosaki, was actually preferable. At least, that had been his thinking before now.

The car rolled to a stop at an intersection, breaks giving off a shrill noise as Ichigo applied them. For a brief moment, thoughts of their feud became empty background noise to the young forward, and Ichigo let a small sigh escape. Time for new brake pads.

"Ah, damn." Time for new everything. It wasn't that he wasn't getting paid well for his first year. It was that he'd just bought a small condo apartment in a very nice area, and he wanted to pay off his dad's mortgage and his clinic bills, and he really wanted to cover his sister's college expenses in full. A new car was next on the list but he'd been thinking next fall, not next week. Sure, he could just slap it on credit, but Ichigo hated the idea of any of his hard earned cash going towards interest payments. He preferred to pay for things up front if he could. Anything left over would be his to share with the people he cared about.

It was that moment that Grimmjow chose to pull down the visor flap on his side of the car and use the mirror... the one that used to be there, anyway. There was a disgruntled snort and the snap of the visor being flipped back up.

"Why you even driving an old piece 'a shit like this anyway?" the bluenet grumbled. "Don't they pay you enough?"

Ichigo's jaw clenched and unclenched.

"I'm saving for something important," he bit out. "And it's none of your business."

"Che. Touchy." Grimmjow shrugged and turned away to rest his elbow on the window frame and his chin on his fist, watching his breath spread out across the glass. He actually wanted an answer, but he knew when _not_ to poke into other people's business, so he wasn't going to push it. It was a genuine surprise to the bluenet that Ichigo had even offered him that much.

"Did you think of anything you want to do yet?" Ichigo didn't bother to look over as he snapped the question with enough venom to bring Grimmjow's icy gaze back onto him.

"No."

"Are you even trying?"

"Not really."

"Keh. Well you've got to pick _something_. I'm not just gonna drive us around in circles all frigging afternoon." That was not how Ichigo had hoped the day would go, although the concept felt familiar.

"I don't _gotta_ pick nothin'," Grimmjow crowed back. His lip curled into a derisive half sneer, and he watched with satisfaction as Ichigo tensed up. The orangette hated Grimmjow's penchant for slang when he got pissy. Funny though, how Grimmjow seemed to know just what Ichigo liked and disliked. The thought made him want to push it a little further.

"And what if I don' wanna choose'? Huh?" he taunted.

"It would be really nice," Ichigo began, his words quiet but clipped, "if you'd just choose so we can get out of the car."

Grimmjow's expression grew darker. There was that calm holier-than-thou facade again, the one he wanted to pierce through until he could reach in and yank out the scrapper inside. But then, that guy pissed him off too. Well, whatever. He shifted in his seat, arm leaning against the window frame so he could turn a bit more towards his partner.

"Maybe drivin' 'round wit' you is what I _wanna_ do." Silence. "Beats sittin' on my ass at home, since I ain't gettin' ta play _hockey_." He enjoyed the low growl now resonating from Ichigo's throat. "Besides, ain't it usually ladies' choice on a first date?"

Ichigo sputtered for a moment, but didn't even deign to look in Grimmjow's direction. He spoke when he felt he could keep his voice calm enough to be understood.

"If you want to sit in my car and trash talk, then this conversation becomes about trades."

"Che. Gonna be your ass, not mine."

"In your wet dreams, asshole."

"The wetter the better, princess."

"Nghh..."

"Way I see it, at least if I don't score, I'm still worth something to the team."

Ichigo took his eyes off the road long enough to shoot a truly menacing look in Grimmjow's direction, face turning crimson with barely suppressed anger. When he spoke again, his voice had an edge of mania to it.

"Grimmjow, I swear... Just pick something you'd like to do. I don't give a shit what it is."

One more comment, and Ichigo was going to have a conniption. Grimmjow could just feel it.

"Fine. I'd like to not _die_ in a death trap today."

Ichigo sucked in an angry breath, but after that his lips stayed squeezed together.

The orangette was trying so hard to hold it together that Grimmjow almost felt contrite enough to wince at his own dig. Grimmjow wasn't _tryying_ to be a total prick. He figured he'd gotten Ichigo back for his hospital stunt by now. It was just that at this particular moment his life royally sucked.

Never mind the fact that he hadn't even jacked off in three days because all the pressure kept making the wrong head throb, he just honestly couldn't think of anything he wanted to do in the shape he was in, let alone with Ichigo. He needed to be at his best to handle himself around the orangette. But here he was, doing exactly the thing he definitely didn't want to be doing, sitting in Ichigo's car with Ichigo in it. Trapped inside his space was more like it. Stuck staring at the man with hair like a brush fire. As if he didn't already feel generally gross, he was out of his element, on Ichigo's turf. And being chauffeured by his enemy, feeling like he was being babysat by the younger man, was yet another blow to his already fragile ego.

And for two big guys, this was one small car. It was making his skin itch just being so close. But that wasn't his greatest concern as the minutes passed, especially with the way Ichigo was beginning to drive. At first, in between verbal exchanges, Grimmjow found himself watching the way the other man's palm wrapped around the clutch, and how long fingers worked against the worn out plastic each time he shifted gears. But that had lost its appeal after a few blocks. Ichigo wasn't paying enough attention to the road, and Grimmjow had found himself shifting in his seat each time they changed lanes or came to a stop.

Grimmjow's foot reached out for an imaginary break as they rushed towards a red light. For the first time in a long time, he figuratively bit his tongue as they came to an abrupt stop. He could tell he'd pushed the young forward towards some kind of breaking point, which was unnerving, knowing full well that Ichigo held both their lives in his hands. He could see that the orangette's eye was twitching slightly, and he didn't need any more injuries today. So he let them sit for two uncomfortably long minutes while they waited for the light to set them free.

As the traffic stopped passing in front of them, Grimmjow studied the side of the orangette's fierce expression. Ichigo hadn't said anything else since Grimmjow's last comment. In fact he hadn't moved a muscle. And they were still sitting at a light which had changed to green awhile ago.

"Whenever you're ready," Grimmjow drawled.

His grip on the sill of the door tightened as the car took off with enough force to jerk him back against his seat.

That was pretty much the end of it for both of them. Ichigo gripped the steering wheel and glared straight ahead on their journey back, while Grimmjow set fire to the world through the open window of the car. The wind, all the while, was busy throwing his blue hair into chaos, but he made no move to fix it. It was the middle of winter but neither man cared. They had both generated far too much heat inside the car, and the icy blast was both a relief and a distraction.

When they finally made it back to the parking lot, the interior of the car was as silent as a cemetery. The car had skidded to a haphazard halt after hitting a patch of black ice, and it had come dangerously close to Grimmjow's baby. The blue-haired man had cursed Ichigo out, making reference to a man who's father's existence was as highly debatable as Ichigo's good sense.

Once Grimmjow had extracted himself from the car and slammed the passenger side door with much more force than was necessary, Ichigo had stomped on the gas pedal and peeled out of the lot without looking back.

Which was a shame, because if he had, it would have made his day.

Because he would have bore witness to the bluenet kicking his keys across the parking lot in an outburst fit for a preschooler, and then stomping them into the pavement after dropping them for the third time as he fought with the lock of his car. Normally, it would have occurred to the bluenet long before then to use the electronic button attached to his key chain to open the doors to his car. But after what seemed like forty eight hours of hell, he was just as agitated, and thinking just as clearly as Ichigo.

The day had been tantamount to torture.

While Grimmjow stood in the parking lot and contemplated taking the bus to the nearest watering hole, or better yet, shooting range, Ichigo sped down the nearby two lane highway, passing every car in sight. That blue-haired, blue-eyed abusive prick had tested Ichigo's moral restraint and he'd been barely an inch away from tearing a strip off the guy, injured or not. How had he thought this would ever be a good idea?

Ten white knuckled minutes later, and Ichigo felt like taking his car through the car wash with all four doors wrenched wide open just to rid himself of that ridiculously rich and unique scent that lingered thick and heavy inside his small sedan. It was distracting and infuriating.

Even when Grimmjow wasn't around, he still had a way of leaving his mark on Ichigo's space. And he couldn't get him off.


	19. Chapter 19

**So, the 2013 playoff finals have begun! And we are down to roughly four chapters to go. *gets a little high from being giddy* I can't wait to have this thing finished. :D And you may yet doubt me, but if you squint, the tides are beginning to turn. This chapter has changed a lot from the original draft. I've actually sped things up a bit, because I want them to get there too.**

**Sarcastic thanksahellofalot, Haley, for leading me towards the "argument" idea. After those first few lines, it just totally ran away with the spoon, and this was the result. *smirks***

**Thanks to you all for your support and reviews! To "those" who hate the story... you must now sign in to review, and unless you can state your case in a considerate and adult manner, your review will not be posted. In the meantime, my PM box is always open.**

**To everyone else, enjoy! -Junichiblue**

* * *

**CHAPTER 18**

Ichigo let a full day go by before making contact with the blue-haired alien again. And he needed every minute of it to fully cool off.

But a little hissing and spitting wasn't going to deter Ichigo from his mission. He was going to do his best to pick his battles with the ornery bluenet. He'd always been decisive as a youth, knowing what he wanted, and without any complaint, doing what he needed to do to achieve his goals. Hockey had always been a priority, and with the full support of his family, he'd proven himself and gotten where he needed to be.

But this time, he was alone. This... fracture.. was between him and Grimmjow. And they were the only two that could mend it. It ran deeper than hockey for Ichigo, though. He could admit to himself, at least, that he genuinely wanted Grimmjow to respect him, to like him, to trust him. Ichigo knew the bluenet was capable of being charming and friendly. Regardless of his animalistic good looks, how else would he have had so many women crawling into his bed? Grimmjow had regular conversations with his other teammates that didn't end in bickering or a bloodbath, and Ichigo found himself wondering what it would feel like to have a kind word or a pat on the shoulder from the enforcer, or... something more personal.

It took everything he had to pick that phone up and dial that number a second time.

It was easy enough to remember, though.

156-1506

Easy. And eerie. And creepy. It was beginning to seem like everywhere he turned, something reminded him of Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez, or linked them together in some supernatural way. His car still smelled of him, like some expensive car freshener, and Ichigo was already growing oddly fond of it.

He had a growing feeling that fate was sitting back on her high and mighty ass, clutching her stomach and laughing hysterically at the both of them.

Well, Ichigo didn't believe that fate was something that was set in stone. He believed that for the most part you made your own fate, shaped the course of your own destiny. Even when the world seemed to have other plans, you always had choices. You had to stay the course for the things you really wanted, fight for your dreams.

You bet your sweet ass that Ichigo had dreams, like enjoying a successful career in the NHL, taking care of his family and watching it grow, and finding someone to share it all with. He wasn't going to let his problems with the bluenet alter his promising future.

The curved edge of the kitchen counter top pressed into the small of Ichigo's back as he stared blankly through the glass of the stained wood cabinets that housed the set of dishes his family had given him as a housewarming gift. Here in his apartment, Ichigo was surrounded by things that let him know how much he was cared about, how fondly he was thought of. And yet, he didn't feel particularly warm right now.

In fact, he didn't remember eating it, but he seemed to have a cold lump of clay sitting in the bottom of his stomach as he waited with the phone against his ear. It was bound there by the knowledge that the person he was calling wouldn't be happy to hear from him. It would be so nice to hear a pleasant tone instead of that ever-present threatening rumble.

After five long rings, the owner of the cursed phone number finally picked up, and Ichigo waited for the inevitable "hello" that wouldn't be.

He knew the bluenet had call display. And he had probably been off searching for a hockey stick or a shotgun while the phone buzzed or rung or exploded into a girlish orgasm, or did whatever perverse thing Grimmjow had set it to do upon receiving a call from Ichigo.

"What. The fuck. Do you. Want?"

He felt the stone in his stomach sink a little deeper. Ichigo lowered the phone and gave it a hearty one-fingered salute before he forced himself to answer the bluenet with as much abject cheerfulness as he could summon without inducing vomiting.

"Morning," he chirped. "I missed you too sweet pea. "

A momentary silence had Ichigo leaning forward in dark anticipation. It was always funny how a cheery demeanour offered at the just right moment could invariably insight anger in others.

"I hate you."

Ichigo leaned back, eyebrows lowering, fingers of one hand drumming against the counter top behind him.

"_That's_ not very nice," Ichigo snorted. "And here I am worrying about you."

There was a pause, a pregnant space that promised fallout, like the moment before a stress relieving belch from a grumbling volcano.

"Blow me, Kurosaki! I ain't gonna play this game! This is the stupidest fucking idea I've ever..."

"You think this is what I wanna be doing?" There was a small grunt of indignant surprise from the other end of the line. "Trading insults with you and wasting my time with a guy who doesn't care?" Ichigo got a stranglehold on his voice just as it began to rise in anger. He needed to keep his cool, keep whatever emotion that was out of his voice. He was pacing the kitchen without realizing it, phone in one hand, and a fistful of hair in the other. "This is not my idea of a good time. But we've already been through this. The coach said..."

"Quite _telling_ me what the god damn coach said!" Grimmjow nearly screamed into the phone, his short tempered fit of exasperation making his voice crack like he'd just hit puberty.

"I fucking don't need you telling me shit! And you know what? I'd rather be flipping fuckin' burgers at some greasy fuckin' fast food chain at minimum fuckin' wage than spend another fuckin' minute with _you_!"

While Grimmjow screamed sweet words of devotion at him through the earpiece, Ichigo moved with restless energy, bare feet traversing the cool linoleum floor and quickly finding their way to the edge of his couch. If the phone weren't between them, Ichigo was sure his face would have been covered with large quantities of Grimmjow's spit.

His chest tightened as the bluenet's words sunk in, and the orangette smiled darkly. The tirade was still going as he sat down with a soft plop, then sank back against the cushions. He slipped his free arm behind his head as he waited a few heartbeats for the bluenet to continue.

He had to admit, that had been rather impressive, the number of times that Grimmjow had so expertly managed to wedge _that_ word into one sentence.

When Grimmjow didn't appear to have any follow up, Ichigo smiled to himself, then pulled his lips into a formidable pout. He could picture that one greenish-blue vein on the bluenet's temple throbbing.

Ichigo just couldn't help himself. A day of cooling off or meditating would make no difference. Grimmjow just made it so easy to forget that he had made a promise to himself to play nice. It seemed that being an asshole was actually a contagious condition.

"Did I catch you at a bad time?" he finally asked with feigned innocence and puckered lips.

Grimmjow stood in the kitchen of his apartment, mouth open, and stared at the phone in his hand with a mixture disbelief and growing realization, the plastic casing of his phone creaking in protest from the crushing force being exerted upon the hapless device. The muscles around one azure eye twitched, while an upper lip thinned and rose like a curtain in front of a chorus line of sharp, white teeth.

His headache was back full force. Somehow, the cocky little shit had turned the tables on him. Grimmjow had been the one who was going to have some fun with this and make Kurosaki suffer. And he had, to a point. But it seemed that once again, Kurosaki had the puck and wouldn't let it go. Grimmjow's game plan had been hijacked.

He grimaced. He was a wreck around the orangette, and the only way to keep his own composure would be to keep Kurosaki off balance instead.

Furious cobalt blue eyes narrowed into razor blades, and a shark-like grin began to form and grow.

Ichigo was beginning to think they had miraculously lost their digital connection when a rumbling tenor finally drifted into his ear, a voice filled with such ominous calm that it made Ichigo's spine roll then straighten.

"Alright, Kurosaki. Bring it on."

**X X X**

It didn't take long for Ichigo's temper to fray.

It had started when Grimmjow had showed up. Ichigo had been locking his car in the parking lot when he heard the other man approaching from behind. He didn't have to turn around to know who's car was idling behind him. The lyrics from _Maroon 5's, Moves Like Jagger _that blared through the open windows of the purring sports car made it all too clear.

**Take me by the tongue and I'll know you  
****Kiss me 'til you're drunk and I'll show you****  
**

**All the moves like Jagger  
****I've got the moves like Jagger  
****I've got the moves like Jagger****  
**

**I don't need to try to control you  
****Look into my eyes and I'll own you****  
**

**I've got the moves like Jagger  
****I've got the moves like Jagger  
****I've got the moves like Jagger****  
**

The orangette knew the song was probably loud enough to exacerbate the enforcer's concussion, and he knew that Grimmjow wouldn't care. Not if his antics got Ichigo's attention, and not if it pissed him off, which it did. It was all about getting a reaction from Ichigo. And damned if it didn't work every time.

Ichigo had stared back at the man who swaggered towards him, with his fly-boy sunglasses and his_ get a load of me_ hair. It didn't matter that the younger man had done so with the most disaffected look he could summon. The telling smirk that perched on the edge of the bluenet's lips was enough to start Ichigo's blood curdling.

He knew it was his own fault this time, though. He shouldn't have taunted the bluenet on the phone. But the minute Grimmjow had snapped at him, Ichigo's wounded inner demon had risen to the surface with a sick sort of glee. And now he was paying the price.

Ichigo had needed to meditate for nearly an hour to recapture his inner good guy after their brief phone conversation. But he'd regained his resolve since their pleasant chat that morning, and he was hell bent on breaking through Grimmjow's attitude and connecting with him in some way. But as the minutes rolled by he was becoming convinced that by the end of the day, he would be in the back of a police car in handcuffs for having murdered the foul mouthed bastard with the blunt ends of his own mirrored sunglasses.

Their meet-up hadn't lasted more than an hour, and the moments that weren't filled with insults and posturing instead left them in strangled silence. They were supposed to be learning about each other, but the only things they had discovered were the quickest routes to flip each others' switches.

Ichigo had figured out at least one useful thing from their last meet up; a concussed, bored Grimmjow was not a good situation. So this time, Ichigo had picked something they could do ahead of time, having realized that malls and excessively loud theater movies were far too much stimuli when one was trying to heal one's brain, after having said brain bounced off the interior of one's skull.

He'd decided to take them to the local aquarium, and Grimmjow had accepted the idea without complaint. It was dark, low key, relaxing, and since it was the middle of the week during the day, it was relatively quiet when they arrived. And this time, they'd skipped Ichigo's car and met at the aquarium. Ichigo was two for two on good ideas, but the final hurdle was a big one. Actually hanging out together.

When he'd arrived and they'd paid their entrance fees, the young forward had tried to call a truce. But the enforcer wasn't interested in truces. As sure as can be, Grimmjow was being im-fucking-possible, and Ichigo was once again beginning to lose his calm facade, piece by aggravated piece.

Nothing he said seemed to be good enough for the other man. If Ichigo said white, Grimmjow said black.

He had never felt so defeated. It was like trying to scale barbed wire bare handed. No matter what footing he found, or what approach he tried, the bluenet seemed hell bent on sticking him and drawing blood.

Despite the unpleasant company, Ichigo had managed to hold it together by the skin of his teeth and keep them from brawling through most of their self guided tour. But things had really begun to fall apart when they'd entered the shark cave, a darkened series of corridors which seemed abandoned by all but the carnivorous aquatic life and the two of them.

With almost no one around to hear them, Grimmjow had seen fit to turn an innocent question into something that left Ichigo feeling like he really was trapped at the bottom of a predatory sea.

"So, have you ever been here before?" he'd asked stiffly, still trying to forget how angry he was at what Grimmjow had done to him in the jellyfish exhibit.

Laughing after sneaking a photo of him while he was nose to glass with one of the large luminescent orange jellyfish was annoying. But offering to email the photo to a group of young women who had recognized the two players was just plain offside. Ichigo had put a fast end to that, but he'd still had to sign the girl's entrance tickets with a feigned smile. The only bright side was that Grimmjow had gotten sucked into the fray as well.

At least, it would have been if the cocky enforcer hadn't made such an erotic show out of enjoying the attention so much for Ichigo's benefit. The enforcer went so far as to lift the hem of his shirt for the boldest of the girls, allowing her to run the tips of her fingers along the xylophone-esque ridges of his abs. Ichigo didn't know what Grimmjow thought he was playing at, but something about the virile display had worked, and now Ichigo was in a right foul mood.

When no answer was forth coming, Ichigo took a deep breath of recirculated air and shifted his gaze onto the man standing close enough that a whisper might carry, but far enough that he couldn't be reached with a punch. He noticed that. That the enforcer had kept his distance the entire trip.

Ichigo frowned. He hadn't whispered though, and the bluenet still hadn't reacted.

Grimmjow was following the slow, side to side movements of a nurse shark, seemingly transfixed as it glided past the thick glass barrier with an expression as dead-eyed and primitive as the man watching it.

"Well?" Ichigo huffed, and Grimmjow answered as if he hadn't been lost in the undersea world at all.

"Of course," he snorted, eyes all but glowing in the eerie light. "Chicks are always draggin' me to places like this thinking it's... romantic." The last word slid languidly off his tongue with the suspicious ease of a well oiled proposition.

Ichigo's eyes automatically launched an unimpressed scowl at the bluenet who was by then smirking at him.

"Kiss my ass," he mumbled, giving the bluenet his shoulder as he trained his gaze back through the window and the creatures behind it.

"Dark corners are good for quickies," Grimmjow purred, sounding a little bit closer than he had a moment ago and drawing Ichigo's begrudged attention back his way. He gave Ichigo a meaningful look which was clear as midday, even in the darkened corridor. And frighteningly suggestive. Ichigo was used to that shit from the guys in the locker room, but, coming from Grimmjow...

And Grimmjow _knew it_ too. Ichigo grit his teeth, deciding not to take the bait, and moved to the next exhibit.

They'd made it most of the way through the exhibit before Ichigo's composure had finally crumbled. When the conversation had turned to their chosen profession, and Grimmjow had started asking questions in a critical tone that was like nail on a chalkboard to the orangette, it had signalled the beginning of the end for their ill-fated outing. And their visit to the aquarium ended in what Ichigo could hardly describe as his shining moment in debating.

"What thing?" Ichigo grumbled.

"That thing ya do with your hockey stick. I've heard ya whispering to it when you think nobody's listening. It's fuckin' weird."

"I do not..." Ichigo growled. Damn bluenet and his supersonic hearing.

"Hah! Yes you do! Don't even try to deny it!" Grimmjow was actually pointing a finger at Ichigo. The orangette's eyes widened. Grimmjow was almost wild, he was so excited that he'd finally got Ichigo in a situation he couldn't talk his way out of.

"Keh." Ichigo's reddening face was visible even in the dim light. "You wouldn't understand if I explained it." Ichigo folded his arms and turned back to glare into the watery world behind the glass walls. He felt the air move as Grimmjow stepped towards him.

Ichigo jumped as a palm hit the window next to his head, fingers splayed against the glass, and he turned to find Grimmjow scowling at him from a few inches away.

"You callin' me stupid?" the enforcer growled. Maybe Grimmjow didn't have quirks like that, but Kurosaki could damn well try and explain it to him when he'd asked so nicely.

Ichigo took a much needed step back, to where the air wasn't quite so charged. He had the feeling he shouldn't be making any sudden moves.

"No! I'm not. Just... it's none of your business." The young forward turned on his heel and started to walk away. Grimmjow dogged after him. And Ichigo felt himself cringe as the bluenet raised his voice, the rough tenor seeming to echo and fill the hall around him.

"Are you always an idiot? Or is it just when I'm around?"

"Shut up."

"Seriously. You keep sayin' that. It's none of my business. How are we supposed to get to know each other if everything's none of my business?"

Ichigo felt his face flush deeper, and he shot daggers back towards the bluenet as he legged it past the next exhibit window, hands stuffed inside his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched.

"Would you lower your voice," he hissed over his shoulder, nodding towards the couple they'd just passed who were staring at them with looks of amusement. As soon as the couple were out of obvious earshot, Ichigo growled. "Since when have you ever wanted to get to know each other?"

"Since now," Grimmjow crooned.

"Bullshit," he snorted. "You're only asking so you can be a jerk about it." His head snapped forward, and he picked up the pace. "That's why I'm not gonna tell you!"

"Fine. You're right. I don't give a shit." Grimmjow was still right behind him. He could catch up if he wanted to, but this felt much more like a chase with Ichigo on the run.

"Good!" The ingenious retort drifted back to the bluenet, who smirked. He was well aware that it was just a superstitious act. They all had them. Renji was always talking to his goalpost after all. But Kurosaki's avoidance had piqued his interest. He knew by now that the kid wasn't going to answer him. But hey, they'd come here to solve their hockey issues hadn't they? So, why not get down to business?

"It doesn't matter how many conversations you have with that no good piece of wood of yours," he crowed. "It's pointless if you're gonna keep on sucking ass."

"Get off my case." Ichigo picked up his pace, trying to put distance between himself and that blue-haired blustering windbag. He turned a corner, bringing them out of the dark undersea world and into the partially sunlit lobby, Grimmjow trailing behind him like a noisy magnet.

"Common, Kurosaki." Grimmjow was getting angry, though he didn't know what was spurring it on really. Everything was just bubbling up. And he suddenly just wanted answers, a solution to their problems. They were spinning into the vortex again, but he didn't want to stop. He couldn't. Ichigo had to have the answers. If he'd just cough it up.

"What the fuck happened to you?"

"The same thing that happened to you," the younger man retorted, not bothering to look back. Ichigo yanked furiously on the zipper of his jacket as he trekked towards the visitors' station at the centre of the large, two story hall. Beyond that lay the doorway, the one that led them out from behind the looking glass and back to the real world.

"Well shit, Kurosaki. What the fuck does that mean?" Grimmjow snarled, exasperated by the orangette's evasive answers. And he was getting tired of staring at Ichigo's back.

"It means we both have the same problem!" Ichigo yelled back, the side of his face profiled by the sunlit backdrop. "You!"

"Is that so?" Grimmjow scoffed, as he killed the last bit of space between them, steps measured as if he were sizing him up. "You already admitted that it's your fault too. You can't keep blaming me for everything!"

Ichigo spun so fast that his shoes squeaked against the polished concrete floor. And Grimmjow, having been nearly on top of him, almost tripped trying to save himself from a jarring collision. He stopped himself with a palm against Ichigo's chest, which he withdrew with a silent grunt, even the contact against the orangette's jacket enough to send a jolt through his arm. He was too worked up to really consider it, and the less he thought about it the better. Less thinking was always better where Kurosaki was concerned.

"I'm not blaming you for _everything_." Ichigo bristled. "But I do _blame_ you! You're at least... " Ichigo looked everywhere but at Grimmjow, as if the answers were going to fall from the walls of the aquarium, "...half the reason I can't score!" That wasn't quite true. Ichigo couldn't decide which, but he was either being generous or outright lying just to get Grimmjow to back off. Grimmjow was _all_ of the reason.

Grimmjow's brows furrowed and he made a sharp, derogatory sound in the back of his throat. This was the same shit the kid had been spouting at him all along, and he was fuckin' sick of it.

"That's a load of crap, Kurosaki," he argued, raising a finger and gesturing as if to hit Ichigo in the centre of the chest with it. "You were scorin' just fine when we started playin'."

"Well, now I can't, goddammit!" Ichigo fumed, pulse thumping against the skin of his neck.

Grimmjow stepped forward, breathing as hard as his counterpart, erasing that last little bit of space before he barked down at the orangette. His temple was throbbing, and his heart was racing at their proximity, his psyche suddenly balanced on the razors' edge between aggression and lust, choking back on the impulse to grab him by his jacket collar and steal the words from right off his tongue.

"Why the fuck not?" Grimmjow snarled, azure eyes flashing with a heat that had Ichigo glaring right back up into those devastating eyes and nearly shouting as he sputtered.

"Because I can't play with an idiot like you when you're always so busy hating my guts!"

Grimmjow's face went blank for a split second before its former fire rekindled.

"Uhm, sirs?" A hesitant voice slipped into their argument.

"**WHAT**?" Two heads snapped around as they responded in tandem, faces scarlet with frustration.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave," the man asked almost apologetically. It was a fairly redundant request. The two men had already been heading towards the exit anyway. But apparently they needed a last little nudge to make it all the way out the door.

The double doors to the aquarium burst open, and a fuming orange-haired man stormed through them, an equally pissed off bluenet hot on his heels.

"That's _stupid!_" Grimmjow snarled.

"_You're_ stupid!" Ichigo snapped, the end of his rope now quite out of reach as he hoofed it across the parking lot towards his car.

Grimmjow winced as he came to an abrupt stop at the bottom of the steps and watched Ichigo retreat, eyes shielded by his hand from the too bright sun. He didn't know what had caused the orangette to grow a vagina like that, but he knew he needed to back off. He'd probably done enough damage to set them back at least a month. Strangely, he wasn't even proud of it.

Ichigo wrenched open the door to his car, and stopped, suddenly aware of the silence and the crisp winter air around him, and the stifling presence that had lifted. He pulled the fresh air into his lungs and expelled it, trying to vent the toxic emotions. He was relieved when he turned to see Grimmjow heading in the opposite direction, stalking back towards the doors. Relieved and disappointed.

**X X X**

He couldn't explain what it was that propelled him forward. But he couldn't deny to himself that it was more than just his career that drew him back again and again to thoughts of the surely enforcer.

Ichigo got up the next day feeling oddly hollow and choked, yet somehow still bound by the same labored termination to make a break in the barnacled haul of their relationship. He was beginning to wonder about himself though, how he felt so torn between wanting to avoid Grimmjow and wanting to confront him. It felt like his emotions were caught between the agitators of a washing machine. And then it got worse.

Ichigo grumbled to himself as he worked his way through his apartment, clad in his favorite grey sweatpants, socks, and little else. It was six in the morning and he was wide awake, sifting through mail and magazines, picking up clothes that had fallen from the peaks of the hamper, and finally stripping the soiled sheets from his bed.

He'd had a very wet dream. It sucked that he couldn't even remember it. She must have been hot as hell.

Ichigo slammed the lid to the washing machine, rinsed a cloth from the kitchen, and dropped himself onto his sofa.

Who was he kidding. He remembered enough to know that she wasn't hot. He remembered enough to know that he'd been in the locker room, its walls made of glass with shimmering blue light the only thing illuminating the darkened room. He'd been alone he thought, until someone had come up from behind and put him in a firm but gentle neck lock. Grimmjow. Ichigo hadn't been able to move, even to turn, but he knew the enforcer was bloodied from fighting and hungry for more. But then things got weirder. Ichigo realized he was stark naked. And without any words between them, Grimmjow had reached through the darkness and stroked him off as waves of shimmering blue light danced across their skin.

Ichigo had woken up just as he erupted beneath the sheets, groaning one moment. Confused the next.

The dream made no sense.

He wanted to get along, not get it on.

And who was he kidding. God, Ichigo had loved it, all that power, that animal side, the fierce attention turned so gently onto him in a way that made him feel wanted, admired, worshipped...

But that would have to stay his secret.

He was doubly frustrated now. He had hoped perhaps yesterday would be the second one in their quest for a new beginning. But both attempts had been an utter failure. Everything between them always seemed to be about winning. Who would back down. Who was strongest. Who would be the first to lose it.

Whether Ichigo had intended it or not, they had locked horns from the first moment they met, and after all these weeks, they still sat in that same awkward embrace.

There was no way they were going to be able to smooth the friction between them.

Ichigo pulled the damp towel from his eyes and retrieved his cell from the coffee table. The answer was obvious.

They needed lubricant.


End file.
